I'll See Her Again
by TwistyTwine
Summary: A sweet, bitter and twisty story I wrote for my original characters. There is not much context for my characters, so please take notice of that.
1. Chapter 1

1

 _There is a gentle ache that trembles in my chest as I walk through the dark and gloomy streets of Em Auri, towards the neighborhood where my human home is resonating._ Rudy is surely in there, perhaps working on her homework from school or other such things. Our human home together is merely her grandma's house. When she was alive, that is. Now I am the so-called "owner" of it, even though Rudy lived in it before she met me.

It's not unfamiliar disguising as a human and becoming one in the flawed but astonishing race. What _is_ unfamiliar is that I am not alone. Every single time I walk into the damned house, the little girl is there to greet me, to hug my waist and ask me how my day was. To play video games with me and crack jokes to make me smile. It's as if I am not some monstrous entity on the brink of internal destruction and malice. It's odd to not only disguise as a human, but to particularly _feel_ human at the same time. This emotion called _love_ is strange and out of place for the negative being known as the Boogeyman, but if I were to be honest, I don't mind all that much.

Besides, it's Rudy Ly that's comforting me. I shouldn't be complaining about a child like her.

My feet are silent and slow against the dry pavement, but the thought of greeting the girl gives me a spring in my step, and so I walk faster. It's still lonely without her. My time in the Negative Side by myself gives me an empty pit in my frame, like Rudy is a piece to the puzzle of the conscience of my mind. I feel hollow when the child isn't around. _Love_ is what I get from her, a positive emotion that I shouldn't be praising. I shouldn't be happy for any of this.

Nearly everybody I have met before in the Mentality World has declared that such a man like me shouldn't be so goddamn joyous. Back then, I almost believed them. But now I realize the range of freedom I have, the encouraging _things_ I hold that the Positives don't. A human, - a human _child_ \- the one who turned me around and understood me faster than anybody else, loves me.

Somebody completely different from everybody's expectations . . . _loves_ me. Rudy Ly cares about me and I care about her.

If there is something to be proud of, it is having her as a daughter to watch over.

Today, I had to visit the Positives for a quick meeting that I so harshly despised, and as a result we clashed into a verbal argument. Without Rudy by me, the sides are unbalanced and engaged into a mental war of who is right or wrong. Despite being completely human, she somehow knows more than the both of us in the subject of equality and agreement. She's only thirteen. What the hell? Why is a thirteen year-old managing our immortal fight? She doesn't need to go through this stress.

Well, I should at least be grateful that I still get to see her. Even if it's an hour or two after what is expected.

The house's silhouette approaches me as I draw close, and I gaze up at it. Judging by the closed curtains at the top, Rudy isn't in her room. She's probably downstairs watching TV or something like that. Or maybe even just getting herself a snack. The usual things that youths like her do, fortunately.

A spark of a smile suddenly lights up my face as I find myself skipping along the front porch steps. I nearly exclaim her name out of sheer happiness and excitement as I knock on the door. "Rudy!" I call her, grin stretching from ear to ear. "I'm home!"

I've never called her like this before. I suppose I'm just extremely positive today. More than I will ever be.

I tilt my head, trying to peek behind the curtains to see if I can spot her. But she isn't in sight.

"Rudy?" I knock on the door again. "I'm here."

No answer.

I sigh. If she's sleeping, then I don't want to disturb her. The poor child is already suffering from the weight of her schoolwork. My hand fishes inside my pocket to take out a ring of keys. Then I unlock the door and step inside.

The aura of comfort of the home is recognizably warm. I slip off my shoes at the door, staring down at the ridiculous mat beneath my pale feet. It reads WELCOME in the most friendliest way possibly, with big, bubbly pink letters over the content of a purple background. It's fitting; Rudy's favorite color is pink. Mine is purple. Just thinking about it makes me laugh to myself. She was the one who spotted it in a store, and yet, she was the one who made me pay for it. She is a funny child. That's one of the reasons why I love her.

I wonder what surprise she is packing in store for such a gloomy man like me. Her humor brings a warm feeling into my stomach, like butterflies dancing in a synchronized circle. She is unlike other children. She can be serious and strong and temperamental and switch into someone youthful and silly in the blink of an eye. I don't know how she does it. With her deceased family, I would expect for her to be more sullen and solemn. But she beams with positivity at every angle.

"Rudy?" I call again, taking off my coat. I look around for a moment in the dimly lit living room. There's a little dip in one of the couches and the TV controllers are shifted to one side. I hope that she hasn't finished our favorite show before me. Then she'll be hiding hints of spoilers here and there, teasing me and hinting of every character's fate. I'm used to ignoring them and only focusing on the show itself, so it's easy to trick me into following the false trail of the plot.

"Come on, Ratgirl," I chuckle. "You make me nervous when you hide from me."

I can sense her presence _somewhere._ I know how much she likes playing hide-and-seek with me, the _Boogeyman_ of all people. But it's always easy to find her because of the giggles in the distance. When she tries to find _me,_ however, she gets a bit annoyed by my advantage, the ones that allow me to hide underneath beds and closets without being seen. It still makes me feel all giddy inside when I think about it.

I walk along the rim of the living room. "You've always been good at hiding," I tease out loud. "Most of the time, until you find something funny and end up laughing about it." That is her cue to do exactly what I have just mentioned. But there is only silence that answers my call.

So she's strategizing. Perhaps she's outsmarting me. I smirk to myself and cross a corner. Then I spot a garment hanging off one of the kitchen chairs in the dining room. _What a clever little hint._ Rudy left her hoodie there.

Walking towards it, my eyes then trace to the kitchen. I let my footsteps be louder than they usually are on purpose to let her know that I'm growing closer. I find my smile widening as I take slow, careful steps, and I anticipate my chance to scare her. There is a strange, coppery smell in the air as I approach the kitchen table, set in the middle of the room. She's behind it, I know.

Then I take my chance. I swiftly reveal myself from the corner, jumping from one side to the other with my hands curled like claws and my teeth bared wide.

"I found you, Ru-"

But my smile drops from my face in an instant as I am greeted with a dark, red puddle of disgusting blood.

She lays there barely twitching, lips stained with velvet as it continues to slowly leak down her chin. Her stomach is grossly split open. A few feet from her is a bloodstained knife. Her eyes are lolled to the back of her head and watery ichor is gushing out of her wounded abdomen. Her finger shakes back and forth as if reaching for me.

It takes me a moment to process the scene, but when I finally do, a wave of nausea slams into me, and my stomach clenches. I smack a hand over my mouth and hold back the sudden urge to _vomit._ I squeeze my eyes shut and gag, hands quivering uncontrollably. "Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh _god_ no."

Looking at her makes me feel so suddenly sick. I've seen worse before over the millions of years I have lived, but when Rudy is contorted in and out and literally bleeding to death, I can't help but sway a bit from dizziness and lose a few breaths along the way.

My senses strike me deep and I immediately fall to the floor, laying the dying girl's head on my knee. _Damnit, damnit! What the hell do I do?!_ I lean in close, listening to my voice as it slowly snaps, cracks and breaks while I stare into her hollow and twitching eyes. "Rudy?"

She groans before weakly curling the corners of her small mouth into a crooked smile. Blood gushes out as she painfully coughs.

I can feel my pulse quickening, my composure burning to ashes. "Fuck!" I hiss angrily at myself. Why can't I do anything but panic and stare?

There's no use in trying to take her to the Positive Side; there aren't any healers there. And I don't know _where_ the hell Jess is. He wouldn't be able to heal her fast enough, anyway. My breath grows cold, and I begin to pant as my throat churns with dryness. _What do I do what do I do-_

I am left with one final choice to finish this all. Holding back the dark liquid wanting to push itself out of my stomach, I snatch Rudy's phone from her pocket, which is one of the only things that has stayed clean from the disgustingly large amount of blood coming out of her wound. Hastily, I make an emergency call with my terribly shaking pale hands.

The operator on the line answers immediately. "911, what's your emergency?"

"Th-There- There has been- _shit_!" I gnash my teeth together, struggling to keep myself in one piece as my anxious stutter begins to tear me apart. "My daughter has- she's- sh-she's been st-stabbed and-"

"Sir, I'm going to need you to speak clearly. It's hard to understand what you're saying.

" _My daughter i-i-is bl-bleeding out_! She's been st-stabbed, and- a-a-and-"

"She's been stabbed?"

"Yes! I need puh-puh-paramedics ruh-right now. _Please_!"

"Okay, okay. Where are you right now?"

"I'm-" _Fuck, fuck, fuck!_ The street name and address is at the tip of my tongue, barely hanging on and on the edge of dropping into the forgotten abyss. Sweat is running down my face as I hold Rudy tightly, every inch of my body quivering like hell. "I'm in . . . I'm . . . in 3842, Morganite Avenue," I sputter.

"Is there anybody else inside the home?"

"N-No."

"Okay. And you said that this is your daughter?"

"Yes!"

"Okay. Get her outside and right next to the street sign. I'm sending paramedics. Make sure that they can see you."

"A-A-Alright . . " I look down in anguish at the poor child's sickly pale face.

"Stay with me on the line," the operator continues. "Okay?"

"I- O-Okay."

Without any time to waste, I scoop Rudy up into my arms and dash outside, the nausea and dizziness in my head long forgotten.


	2. Chapter 2

2

 _I couldn't bring myself to stay there._ I wasn't going to look upon the sickening face of my child like that without being able to help at all.

I return to our home with my jaw clenched and my hands shaking like hell. I had to take a taxi because I couldn't contain my posture and almost stumbled onto the sidewalk because of how weak I was. The urge to vomit has not pressured me in such a long time, and now I am quivering from utter nausea and panic. Back at the hospital, I had struggled to keep close to Rudy, despite the other half of my mind begging me to escape from that hellish place.

"Let me see her," I croaked, barely clinging onto the paramedic's shoulders.

He had shook his head urgently, making quick glances behind him to check on the others. I could barely see the girl. My jaw tightened painfully and I tried to push past him.

"Sir, I need you to leave," he said. "We'll work on healing her up and we'll give her some stitches. She'll be alright."

But my mind didn't let me rest. "I just want to see," I protested weakly.

"Your daughter will be alright," the paramedic insisted once more. "Please. I need you to go. We'll call you later. There is no use staying here without anything to do, anyway."

I gulped angrily, nails digging into my palms. My eyes scrolled behind him once again, back at the bleeding-out child that is underneath my care. The one that I _should_ be taking care of. My lip began to quiver, but I forced myself to give her one last look before whipping around and storming out, my hands clasped over my mouth in a sickly, grossed out way.

Now I'm stumbling into the living room and collapsing onto the couch. Cold sweat stains are painted onto my neck and face. I run my hands through my hair and let out a deep, shaking breath. Words and images dash through my head like the blood in Rudy's wound. The dizziness has me tight in its grasp, and all it needs to do is make a simple snap, and _there._ I would vomit and faint at once. But my body just won't let me rest, both physically and mentally.

The house has already been searched by authorities - just for the gory scene in the kitchen. The knife was taken, but I can still smell that disgusting metallic scent that it left behind. _And her small, pink hoodie._ Just looking at it makes me shiver, and I curl up into a ball on the couch, mumbling to myself miserably. I could barely answer the questions that were given to me simply because of how anxious I was, and I had to be taken outside in order to calm down and pull myself together.

How the hell did she even get stabbed in the first place? My own questions are left without proper, accurate replies. There are no signs of someone breaking into the house. And I haven't received info of any fingerprints. Perhaps . . . Perhaps a demon or spirit attacked her. Yes, that seems to be the case. I wasn't here when she needed me, and it's all of _my_ fault for letting her get hurt. What a fucking disappointment you are. Now you won't be able to spend time with her at all.

With trembling legs, I force myself to stand up. There's a lump in my throat that I cannot swallow down, like it's hanging there to remind me of the sudden shame and guilt that is constantly weighing down on my back. My scars are beginning to react again, like last time with that nightmare. I'm struggling to stand up straight, my spine curved and hunched uncomfortably and my neck aching itself into despair. My arms are burning and tingling with self-inflicted wounds from the past. And my head is chronically spinning once again, having only worsened from the nausea of seeing _her_ like that.

There must be some painkillers in here somewhere. I shakily walk to the kitchen, wincing at the sight of Rudy's pink hoodie and narrowly avoiding it. My hand almost reaches out to feel its soft texture, if only for comfort, but I snag my arm away and force myself to look ahead. I hope nothing has been done to her necklace. _Please, not again._

A few moments later, I have exactly six tablets of medication in my palm, which is, I know, most likely unhealthy for someone like me to take. But I don't care. There's no worry of me possibly dying from anything like this; I've already tried before.

I throw all of them in the six of my mouth, swallowing them painfully and letting out a sigh. Perhaps I should have six more. I'm too impatient to wait for the effect. I don't know if it'll even work.

I lean forward onto one of the kitchen chairs with a forlorn shadow on my face. I stare blankly at the counter. Unwillingly, my eyes slowly guide themselves to that stupid pink hoodie beside me, its owner long gone and far away from here. I'm all alone. She isn't here to wear it, despite how cold it probably is in this damn home.

Slowly, I outstretch an arm, ignoring the tingly, watery pressure beginning to build up behind my eyes. My long and bony fingers roughly wrap themselves around the youthful garment before bringing it towards me. I stare down at it with the harshest of anger. All of it is against myself.

At least she didn't have this on when she got stabbed. It's not filled with blood. That spot where her wound is, directly in the middle of her stomach. How deep is the wound, anyway? Can it kill her? Is she going to die? Has she already lost too much blood to survive? What if the operation at the hospital goes wrong? My hands wrap around the hoodie protectively as I finally think, _Am I never going to see her again?_

There is reluctance sitting gloomily in my chest as I take a seat in one of the chairs. I lay my head in my arms before letting the hoodie become a blanket around my shoulders, and I hang onto it tightly as if it is the only thing I have left in this world. The scars are continuing to pester and fight amongst themselves on the ground of my skin as my shoulders shake, and I finally let out the raw tears and sobs that I have held in for so long. So fucking long.

I need to get a drink.

I tell myself to stay at the house in case anybody visits me in order to question further about my wounded daughter. It doesn't mean that I would be _prepared_ to answer; I would be too drunk and dizzy to even speak.

Being the powerful being of negativity, anything with positive energy is surely able to injure me, if not being natural emotion and as a form of an attack. I've always felt uneasy in the Positive Side, that heavy feeling always sitting inside of my head and throat like a cold stone. It's the place that I loathe the most.

But at least I can get some benefits out of it. For instance, its alcohol. All of it, since from the Positive Side, has positive energy. _Much_ positive energy. So though it affects everybody else normally, only I will be poisoned by consuming it.

That is something that I can stand by with relief.

I had dropped my drinking habits long ago, when Rudy managed to pull me out of it. I was glad, and so was she. But now it's merely impossible for me to think of an excuse to not drink anything now that the girl is gone. Perhaps not forever, but long enough for me to suffer in my own loneliness.

My hand grips the bottle tightly, arm shaking. This feels like a faint memory; it's familiar, but I know that deep down inside I shouldn't be doing this. What would Rudy think of me? I look at the labels shamefully, my mouth curling into a frown. What if she gets better tomorrow? What am I going to do, then? Visit her underneath the influence of a hangover?

I huff, putting my head in my hands. I'm such a selfish man. Wasting time ruining myself when I should really be mourning for her. Get her a small little card or draw something for her. Make up a song for her. Make her feel better, for fuck's sake. But there is no energy inside my body, the sparkle of hope that had been there from before burnt out and dead. _Maybe like Rudy, soon._

I feel myself shiver. _No. Don't think about that._

My cold heart writhes and aches as I begin to shake once more. My hands cover the thick tears that gush out of my eyes, and I hunch over on the couch, sobbing miserably. Is this really what I'm going to do? Am I going to make everything worse? I hastily wipe the tears with my knuckles, clenching my teeth and letting out quiet whimpers and whines. They fall to the ground like clear droplets of blood, leaving dark shadows of internal wounds. Rudy would be ashamed. She'd be so ashamed.

I heave a quivering breath as I wrap my twitching fingers around the bottle once more. I want to crush it to bits. I want to use the shards of its glass and tear my skin apart. That spark of hope suddenly strikes back, returning to torment me. _Finally. I actually have some use to myself,_ I think in despair. _I deserve it._

"So this is what you're messing yourself up with," I mutter. "You fucking bastard." My grip on the bottle's neck begins to shake. "You fucking coward." I twist open the bottle and put it to my lips, hesitating for only a moment before beginning to drink it all down. The taste is scarily bitter, but I ignore it with the power of my negative thoughts and painful sadness.

I can feel the liquid pass through my throat like sour fire. But I don't stop until it's about halfway empty, the bottom of it clinking back onto the table. I continue to twitch and shake, not used to its taste and feeling. A small hint of refusal continues to beat in my chest, but I mistake it as feign, barely useful. So I continue to beat myself up and drink.

"What is she going to think?" I ask to nobody in particular. "Looking at you like this. All scratched up because of some little pathetic excuse." My claws begin to anxiously scrape against my wrist, the tingling sensation numb and barely noticeable. The fogginess begins to settle in my mind, and slowly, bit by bit, I begin to forget all purpose of why I'm doing this. All I see is red human blood dripping from a small human girl, the one I call my own child.

"You idiot," I hiss, claws beginning to dig. "Useless idiot. Piece of shit. _Bastard._ " I drink from the bottle again, gulping it down more viciously, more aggressively. I feel like I'm choking from how fiery my throat feels. "You're just making her upset. Just- Just hurting her."

Then my skin finally breaks, and dark blood gushes out. I clench my teeth and tense my shoulders. That little bit of reluctance has disappeared completely, evaporated from the intense heat of the alcohol. I keep on scraping my skin. Black marks leave open wounds, marking like abstract art. It stings, but at the same time, I have never felt better. _I deserve this. I deserve this. Again and again and again._

"Wh-What the hell are you doing?" I hiss once more. "You call yourself her father and . . . and you don't even a-act like it." The gashes are travelling to the insides of my arm, then my shoulders. Blood continues to gush and thrash, dripping from my skin like the watery droplets on my face. I drink again, swallowing each and every drop down until the bottle's all hollow and empty.

"Don't hurt her," I whisper.

Then my grip tightens around the bottle's neck, and suddenly, I bring it up into the air before slamming it down onto the table's edge. It breaks, snapping into a dozen sharp pieces. I immediately grab one of them and start tearing my arms apart, not caring about how much of a mess I'm making. Sweat mixes with blood and blood mixes with tears. My arms are now painted with black, caked and sticky. Everything _burns,_ from my throat to my face to my entire body.

Right at my side is another bottle to down, and that is exactly what I do. My tongue feels rough and the inside of my mouth is disgustingly bitter. My mind is slugging down and turning to mush, and soon my hands are slipping against the memories of today. All I know is that I did something wrong. That Rudy is dying. That I had held her in my arms without doing anything useful. And now I can feel myself swaying as if I'm in the wind, slowly and gradually becoming more weaker than I already am.

"This is what you did to her," I sob, scratching at my bloody shoulders and rocking back and forth. "Th-This is wh- wha- what you duh-did." I begin to weep to myself, pieces of skin hanging off the frame of my limbs. Everything is so empty. My heart is thumping uncontrollably in my cold ribcage. Suddenly, breathing feels like being strangled, a thick wire choking me and wrapping around my chest, suffocating the oxygen that had made me feel so calm before.

Nothing is clear anymore. The world is spinning in and out, my composure dragging itself away and my hands beginning to turn limp. In no time, my neck begins to droop, head hanging low as I stumble around the room, trying to find something sharp to hold in my muddy mind.

"Look at wh-what you duh-duh-did to her," I weep. "You idiot. Goddamnit . . . control yourself!" I let out loud and messy sobs, not caring if there's anybody outside who can hear my screams and shouts. "She i-i-isn't here. Wh-Why isn't she here? _Why_ is- isn't she here?" My bloody palms drag through my hair, pulling at the dark strands. "So a-alone. Why are you ssssss-suh-so alone?" Suddenly, I can't see anything. My eyes are blocked and glassy, my throat burning and raspy. I want someone to hold me. To hold my stupidly cold hands and tell me that everything is going to be alright. But I can't remember anybody else that has loved me before. I don't think anybody wants to love me.

It's becoming difficult to walk, and I hold myself up with a hand on the kitchen counter. I don't want to die alone. I want someone next to me. My fingers are wrapped around nothing, wrapped around nobody. No warmth. Everything is dead, cold and lifeless. I realize how pathetic I am in the little time I have left, and I want to bring it to an end.

". . . Maybe th-this wuh-will work, th-th-this time," I whisper. "P-Please work . . ."

A desperate hand snatches onto the closest object next to me, its metal point nearly piercing my already torn-apart skin. I don't know where to start. But I bring it up near my chest. Then I move it to my neck. It's where most of the pain is coming from, anyway. Physical pain, that is.

I'm swaying back and forth, but my grip on the knife stays firm. I don't know how many scars I already have, but it seems that they will be getting a new family member.

My eyes gloss out, and my head finally gives up its fight against the strength of alcohol taking over my brain.


	3. Chapter 3

3

 _My head feels muddy the next morning, a beating ache already beginning to dance inside my skull._ And dozens more all over my body, as well. The numbness from before is still working its magic, blocking out all possible thoughts and all possible movements. Because every single time I try to open my eyes, I find myself staying completely still.

My hands weakly clench something soft and fuzzy, shaking from how much strength I'm trying to push into them. Something burns in my palms whenever I try to move my fingers, and I don't know where the hell it's coming from.

Then I remember a single name. _Rudy._ Is she here? My lips try to move and form the word, but the moment I try to let in a single breath, my chest racks with dry coughs. A stab of raw pain runs through me, throat burning like hell. _Where is Rudy? What happened to her?_

"Ru- Rudy-" I manage. "Where- where are-"

"Maddy?" a sudden voice interrupts me. It's loud and it echoes painfully in my skull. "You're awake! That's good! Please stay down."

Weakly coughing and wheezing, I start squirming a bit, and I try to get up despite my foggy mind. "Where . . . is she?" I croak miserably. "I need her-"

"Settle down, seńor!" the voice urges me again. A warm hand then lands on my chest, gently keeping me down. Without much strength to fight back, I tiredly relax, my headache becoming worse as the seconds drag by.

"I want you to rest, m'kay? I don't really know what happened, but- but I think I can figure it out. Uh . . . just don't get up, 'kay, seńor? I want you to stay down. You've probably got one hell of a headache right now from . . . all of _that._ "

"All of . . . All of what?" I groan, trying to open my eyes to no avail. My throat continues to burn.

"From all these bottles ya left here, obviously!" the voice exclaims.

I curl up, hissing and clenching my teeth. Everything is too loud, too sudden. It all feels like the chiming of bells ringing back and forth paired with the scratchy noise of radio static.

"Right along here," the voice continues. "Did you really drink all of these in one night, seńor?" Then the voice pauses. My blood is pounding in my ears as I can barely listen for it to speak again, this time quieter and more gently.

"Sorry, Ormad," the voice mutters. "I'll talk more quietly from now on, m'kay?"

I groan. I feel like I'm moments away from falling asleep. "My head hurts . . ."

"I know, Ormad. I'll take care of ya."

The warm hand brushes softly through my hair, a calming sensation compared to the monstrous storm swirling inside my mind. My worries of Rudy finally settle, if only for this small moment. I use all of my willpower to finally open my heavy eyelids, and I stare into blurry space.

What I see first is the shadow of a pitiful but grateful face. There he stands, the owner of the voice. Winsome is one of those people that is easy to recognize no matter how he dresses or how much he wants to cover himself up. And his smile is one of his many features that gives me a familiar vibe of love, platonically giving me a warm feeling whenever he wants to help me out. But unfortunately, I am not in a good enough mood to be glad that he is here.

"Mornin'," the kind clown greets me, still keeping his tone quiet as he promised. "Hope I didn't scare ya."

I grumble. "Don't want . . . to talk . . ." I cough again, trying to get rid of the dry feeling in my throat. It's like ice is burning within it.

Winsome gives me a sad smile. He pats me on the shoulder, gently. "That's okay, Maddy. That's okay. Just get some rest." Then he straightens, gives me one last affectionate look, and walks not far away, sitting down on a chair.

With the silence given to me, it's easier to clear my senses, even with the ache in my head. The process is slow, even a bit painful when I realize where I am, how weak my state is and what things I must discern in order to analyze it. I feel terrible. What an embarrassment I must be.

The blanket draped over my shoulders is soft and warm, so at least that's comforting. I still wonder where Rudy is, and what has caused me to worry about her too much. Trying to remember is like lifting my neck up after a bullet has encased itself into my flesh, so I let it stay foggy and unknown, instead burying the side of my face into the pillow beneath me. My throat continues to burn, and I bring up a haggard hand to feel my neck. Immediately, I flinch, drawing in a hiss. No wonder why it's so hard to speak.

Winsome sighs. "I'm sorry if I've made anything worse," he mutters. "I just want you to feel better."

". . . It's . . . fine," I groan, nuzzling the pillow with my nose and cheek.

I wrap the blanket around my arms, curling up underneath it. Then my breath stops. Thick bandages are wrapped around them, barely even recognizable _as_ bandages from the amount of blood that has soaked it all up. It stretches from my wrists all the way to my shoulders, giving me an unhealthy reminder of what I've done last night. My gaze slowly travels to the clown across the room.

He simply shrugs, giving me a peaceful gaze.

"Did . . . Did I do this?" I ask him blankly, not expecting to be surprised if I did or not.

"The bandages? Nah. The injuries? I don't know," Winsome admits, but I can see the sureness in his eyes. Who else would've done it? "But I still patched ya up, seńor. Does anythin' hurt?"

"Mmhm," I grunt back in response.

"Ay-yai." He frowns. "I'll get ya some painkillers. They're in the kitchen, right?"

I begin to trace the lines of bandages around my arms with a thin finger, not lucid enough to be deep in thought and not numb enough to pass out again. "Yeah," I murmur.

Winsome's brow furrows, his bright lips forming into a line of concern. But as we continue to stare at each other, he lets out a sigh. "I'll be right back. Stay here, Maddy."

 _Not that I can really go anywhere else,_ I think to myself as I watch him go.

Groggily, I turn sides on the bed I'm in, squinting to try and peer through the bright light of the window some feet away from me. Trying to look at it with open eyes sends a wave of dizziness crashing into me, in which I reply by squeezing my eyes back shut and grumbling to myself. I caress the bandages on my wounds, wondering why I'm so relieved by its texture. I suppose it just makes me feel comfort in some strange way.

I wonder where Rudy is. I hug the blanket against my chest, ignoring the soreness of the night before. I wish she were here. Or . . . Or perhaps she's at school right now, and I'm just being a tad bit more desperate than I'm supposed to be. She must be safe there. Unless something else happens. _Goddamnit._ It's impossible to clear all of these dreadful thoughts with such a heavy head.

But I'm always worried about her. That shouldn't be anything new.

Winsome returns with the bottle of painkillers, and just looking at them irks another reminder of yesterday. I faintly remember taking some of those tablets, but I don't know how many. I don't think it would hurt to take some more. I'm not a doctor. I don't care. Eyelids fluttering, I weakly turn my gaze to him, that little action taking almost all of my energy.

"Ya sure you're good, Maddy?" Winsome inquires in concern. "I don't know if it's good for you to take these right now. Especially after . . . a _hangover_ of all things. And I don't know if it works good on ya when you don't even eat anythin' . . ."

"It worked last time," I forcefully croak, hand on my throat. "I'll . . . be fine."

Winsome purses his lips in thought. He looks at the small bottle within his gloved hands, and he frowns. There's a pause that brings his entire body to a still. Then he walks over to the nightstand beside me and places the bottle there. His green irises droop with bittersweet affection as he looks into my own cold eyes.

"I-I'll just leave them here," the clown assures me. "And I'll be here, too. You just tell me when ya need them, aight?" His places a hand on the nightstand. "Just whenever, that's all."

I wearily nod, burying my face into my pillow and covering my shoulders with my blanket. How I want to sleep again. To faint and cut everything to black. All I need is to never have the terrible nightmares that eat at my mind like hungry vultures feeding on their prey. That's all I need. Winsome stays silent as I ponder on about what it is like to have dreams, _real_ dreams with real imagery that I can finally find peace in. Or perhaps Rudy can wish me a gentle goodnight; that is an easier way. Then I will be okay. She tells me that everything will be okay.

Speaking of Rudy, I muster up the strength to ask where she is. That dread is making its return as a fireball in my chest. "Where's . . . Rudy . . . ?" I mumble, turning my head to look back up at Winsome.

He freezes again, shoulders squeezing up against his neck. Already I can tell I've answered a question that I should've stopped from travelling out of my mouth; my stomach clenches and the peeking anxiety lays its hands around my face as Winsome's fingers nervously tap on the nightstand.

"You don't remember?" he asks. Then he forces a crooked smile. "Well, uh, I mean . . . I don't really _expect_ ya to remember, but . . ." His smile twitches, threatening to drop. ". . . really?"

"No."

Winsome pauses, his hand curling into a fist. "Oh." Awkwardly, he brushes a hair behind his pointed ear, sucking in a breath between his two front teeth. "I don't really think it's a good idea for me to tell ya right now. Since, um . . ."

"What's wrong with her?" I ask him unsteadily.

He turns away from me, then back again. It's like he's holding everything back. I don't understand why; Rudy is my daughter. I need to know if something happened to her or not.

"Well, I think you were drinking last night because-" Winsome inhales, then exhales with words speeding past his lips. "-because Rudy got hurt. She got stabbed, remember? It was on the news and stuff. And ya called paramedics, and-"

I can feel my stomach clench once again as disgusting, gore-filled images of Rudy bleeding to death on the kitchen floor speed through my head. The red liquid gushing out of her. The stained knife. How she was coughing and smiling like it was all nothing. Queasiness slaps me in the face as I clasp my hand over my mouth, already feeling sicker than ever. _Oh god, Rudy. Oh god, no._

Winsome's expression curls in regret. "Was that too much?"

I don't have an answer for him as I fall out of bed and onto the ground, and I leap towards the trashcan just in time to start puking in it. Nausea squeezes my stomach like the body of a snake, pushing out the liquefied version of negative energy: my own blood. It's painful, moving past the base of the wound on my throat and pushing pressure onto everything else.

It isn't until a few seconds later when I stop, letting my head hang there as I try to spit the bitter taste from my mouth, only to start vomiting again when I think of _her._ I've been through too much of this shit.

"I'm sorry," Winsome whines behind me. He gently rubs my back as I continue to retch.

Around a minute or two afterwards, I finally lift my head up from the trash can, swaying haggardly back and forth from the dizziness and disgust. Everything from my arms to my hands are shaking wildly as I lean against the bed behind me. My head is spinning with thoughts and images, and I swallow to keep myself from throwing up once more, looking up at the ceiling with blurry eyes.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I quietly groan, turning my head down to look at its owner. Winsome lets out a sigh as he does his best to connect his gaze with mine.

"I'm sorry," he repeats softly. "I . . . I won't say any of that again, Maddy. Not until you feel better, aight?"

I can't bring up the energy to respond. I can't feel anything but the twitches of my fingertips.

Winsome gives me a light pat, guilt ridden all over his face. I want to tell him that it's not his fault, that it's _mine_ for letting myself get so sick in the first place. There isn't anything I can do to try and make him feel better, for I know how modest he can really be at times like these.

He waits for a moment before he wraps his arms around my waist and manages to pick me up onto my feet. My knees almost buckle upon feeling the pressure on my legs, and I feel like I'm about to pass out when he sits me on the bed. His warm hands keep me awake as they cup around my neck, keeping my head up and not hunched.

"You aren't gonna be takin' those," the clown tells me, gesturing to the painkillers on the table. "Sorry, seńor."

My eyelids flutter as I heave a breath in exhaustion, letting myself be held up. Now I know why I've been feeling so anxious about the poor girl. She's wounded. Perhaps even beyond repair. That sour taste on my tongue stays, no matter how much I want to throw it out. It almost reminds me of the scent of human blood, and I resist the urge to gag.

"J-Just do your best to relax here, okay?" Winsome says carefully, slowly laying me down with his hand behind my head. "No pressure or anything. I'll- I'll just . . . get ya some water, aight? Aight."

"She's going to die," I rasp miserably.

Winsome shakes his head. "No, she'll be fine," he reassures me. "I'm sure she will. I _promise_ she will." He gives me a worried but heartening smile.

I only let myself suffer underneath a crestfallen frown. "Everybody breaks promises," I grieve.

He's too struck by my pessimism to make an answer right away. There's a sad, droopy look in his once-bright eyes, all of his encouragement having been killed by how pathetically negative I am. For a moment, all he does is stare in pity. Then he gently pats my bruised and beaten knuckles, a warm touch through all the cold.

"Rudy will be okay," he tells me. "She always ends up being okay."

Winsome leaves me in a forlorn shadow, keeping his eye on me as he disappears behind the door.

My lips are dry and I feel as sore as ever. Only this time I don't have the child that I love so dearly to come comfort me. She's away, somewhere else where nobody loves her but will at least care for her. Better to be there than next to a man who _does_ love her but can barely bring himself together to care for her. What sort of bastard could be loved by such a sweet girl? He doesn't deserve anything and she deserves everything. It's such a stupid, drastic difference.

I miss Rudy.

Winsome stays with me for as long as he can, attempting to keep me entertained even though I'm drowning underneath the weight of my steadily growing melancholia. I lay my head sickly against the pillow, rubbing my fingers along the texture of the blanket. It reminds me of Rudy's hoodie. I should really get her a new one; she's had her default garment for far too long. I can just imagine her reacting to something new and fluffy for her to wear. Her happy, smiling face when I get her a hoodie like that. Then I can call her my sweet little ball of fuzz.

Instead of feeling joyful at these thoughts, I find myself dwelling deeper and deeper into desperate sadness. She isn't here. I can't see her smile, what the hell am I thinking? I don't deserve to see her.

The migraine in my head continues to thud, gradually growing louder and louder as time passes by. Winsome's quiet speech suddenly sounds like shouting. He doesn't stop, and I don't have the energy to ask him to stop.

I take my twitching fingers and massage my temples and the sides of my neck, closing my eyes and sighing. It comes out as a whistling wheeze. I just want everything to end. The smell of leftover blood in the trash can begins to spread around the room, coming out as a bitter nicotine scent. It's disgusting.

Whatever Winsome is saying, I do not pay any attention to, but it seems that there isn't any need for me to do that, anyway. His lips stop moving. Then he moves them again to mutter, "Am I annoying you?" There isn't any accusation in his tone; being the self-conscious person he is, he just wants to know because he cares. But he shouldn't waste it on someone like me.

I weakly curl up, staring at him with itchy, watery eyes. Slowly, I shake my head. "No," I croak.

"How are you feeling? Does your head still hurt?"

 _I want to fucking kill myself._ "Yes."

"Do you want anything?"

 _Rudy. I want Rudy back._ "No."

"Are you going to be okay here all by yourself?"

 _Don't leave me like this._ ". . . Yes."

The clown stands up, and he cautiously makes his way over to me. His round, colorful figure looms over the bed, and his green eyes sparkle with a sense of worry. "Are you sure?"

I blink blankly. _No. No, no, no, no. Don't walk away. Don't leave me here alone. I'm going to hurt myself again if you do. I can't control myself like this. I'm too scared. Please don't leave._

"Yes," I mumble into the pillow, refusing to look at him. "I'm . . . okay . . ."

He falls for the forlorn lie, even though he should know better. Winsome lets out a shaky sigh of relief as he gently runs a hand through my hair, looking down at me with his eyes swarming with tears. His smile wavers. "I-I'll be out in- in the living room," he stammers. "Okay? I'll check on you later."

I tilt my head towards his palm, for warmth is one of the things that I cherish so much. My words barely come out as a whisper. "Okay."

Winsome keeps his fingers tangled with the dark strands on my head for a few more moments. Then he lets go. "Hope you feel better, Maddy."

He finally leaves, and I finally begin to cry.


	4. Chapter 4

4

 _I don't know how long it is until I get out of bed, but when I do, I have to lean on the bed and wall before I can stand up straight._ My legs shake as I stumble, coughing as I take deep breaths to keep myself steady. I try to take my mind off of everything else. But the sharp objects laid all over the room don't help at all; I have to look away from one of the pots of flowers on the shelf, for its prickly thorns tempt me.

I manage to limp over to the vanity in the room. If there's anything that _will_ distract me from those gruesome memories, it is looking at the terrifying monster known as _me_. That way, I can point out all the mistakes I have been through in the past and blame myself for every single one of them. Nobody else.

My dark hair is tangled and an absolute mess, and the shadows underneath my eyes and cheeks seem more sunken in than usual. There is a sickly tone to my skin. And as much as I try to control it, my expression twists back and forth in a disheveled arrangement of emotions. It's impossible to tell if I'm pissed off or simply upset, on the edge of collapsing into depression or falling into bewilderment. The bones of my neck seem to stick out, as they increase the bony shape of my toned frame. I look and feel disgusted.

So I head over to the bathroom and splash water onto my face, meeting eye to eye with my reflection once more. I must resist the urge to break the mirror, to see the cracks split back and forth across my gloomy face. I hate looking at it. I hate looking at how angry and cracked up I am. I almost look like some sort of deathly _ghoul_. How can Rudy love someone like this?

The shadows under my eyes are almost as dark as my hair. When have I gotten actual sleep? Rudy had _begged_ me to rest, but my frantic mind never lets me to, even when she's gone. That little voice in my head spits venom, teasing me and wondering if the girl would end up in some sort of catastrophe if I decided to sleep. If she came upon an island of mischief in her little dreams without me to watch over her. That snake of guilt tempts me to stay awake for as long as I can. I don't care the abilities I have as the Boogeyman, as the personification of the so-despised negativity in this world. I worry too much. I love her too much.

I stare at the bandages coiled around my arms and neck. I did this. I can't bring myself to hurt Rudy, but I will always drop my defenses to hurt myself. Pathetic. Maybe someday, _some fucking day,_ I will finally be able to end my life. But I have tried it too many times before, even while knowing that my immortality will never give away to whatever strong rope or blade finally breaks me. At least it doesn't hurt to try. _But what about Rudy? What would she think?_

Stumbling back out into the bedroom, I sit on the bed and rub my temples again. The water, which is still soaked all over my face and neck, is barely cooling me down, let alone make me feel better. Winsome had taken the bottle of painkillers away, and to my dismay, I don't have the motivation to go out and ask him for it. He'd refuse to give them back, anyway.

He cares for me as if we're in love, but we both very much know that we aren't even close to that. We love each other in a different way, just like a sibling would watch another. We aren't in the least alike, but he doesn't seem to care; if I dare to get a simple bruise or scratch, he'd check me immediately and wrap me up, even when I'd have the chance to do it myself. Even emotionally he knows my weak spots, but not as much as Rudy. He's not as deep. He just wants to see me smile. Instead of fixing my broken feelings right away, he settles for warmth.

"I can get ya something," he'd say. "Or I can take ya to the park." Not _What's wrong?_ or _Do you need any help?_ It's that technique he has of making me feel all tingly and loved inside without actually saying it out loud. And when he sits next to me, he lets me lean my shoulder against his.

It's something I used to loathe before, and I still long for it now. _Warmth._ Both the emotional and physical kind. The way someone holds hands with me, hugs me, lays their head on me, and the way they make me feel inside with their kind words and compliments. Love was so rare for me before, when I was just a lonely, unstable creature, the personification of all evil and darkness in the universe. And then someone calmed the fears inside of me and became my friend.

Rudy.

It suddenly feels so cold, despite sitting on the edge of my bed and now holding the blanket in my hands. I let out a shaky sigh, quietly coughing when no one else can hear me. I wonder how Rudy's feeling right now. Suddenly, I perk up; _how_ is _she doing?_

As someone who quite literally isn't a human, I don't have any knowledge as to how hospitals operate. My best guess is that they would call me, though I don't remember where I put Rudy's phone. Perhaps I just visit the hospital itself and see if I can check on her?

But that idea makes me feel more nauseous and dizzy than I already am. I'm too afraid to go see her. I don't know what state she's in and I'm terrified if the result ends up being something drastically . . . I shake my head of those thoughts, squeezing my eyes shut and burying my face into the blanket. My arms are stiff and sore and I feel like I'm constantly running out of breath. I wouldn't make it to the hospital without passing out again.

Maybe I just need more water. It's not supposed to affect me in any way, but hopefully make me feel a little bit more refreshed. And then I might be able to focus.

I force myself to stand up no matter how much I want to stay, and once I'm on my feet, I can't pull myself back into my bed. My steps are shaky and unstable as I grab the empty cup on the nightstand, my arms slightly stuck outwards to keep myself in balance. When I finally wrap my fingers around the door knob, I look behind me, expecting for the dream to collapse to allow me to finally wake up.

But everything stays exactly where it is.

Thoroughly disappointed, I step into the hallway, ambling with my hand on the wall to see Winsome on the couch in the living room. He's watching television, having put it on mute and instead placed subtitles on the screen, perhaps in case I needed help and called his name. He notices me almost immediately, and his pointed ears twitch in a reaction.

"Heya, Maddy," he greets me, keeping the quiet tone he had before. "Ya feelin' better?"

"No," I croak.

His eyes droop, lips forming a straight line. "Oh," he mutters. He looks around as if expecting someone else to add on. "Then why are you out here?"

"Water," I croak again.

"Oh!" Winsome immediately stands up. "You could've just asked me." He walks to me, outstretching a hand to take my empty cup. "I can get ya some right now."

"No, I'm . . . I can get it on my own," I mutter.

"No need for that, seňor. I'll get it."

My jaw clenches weakly, and I shake my head. "I'm okay on my own."

Winsome frowns in concern. "Are you sure? Because I don't want you to overwork yourself or anything."

"I'm not overworking myself."

"It seems like you are . . ."

"I just don't want you to take care of me. I'm not some sort of child."

"But-"

He stops when I glare at him sharply, my fingers slightly tightening around the plastic cup. When he realizes my annoyance and gives me a smile of glum, I immediately feel an inch of regret.

"Okay, Maddy," he chirps, feigning relief. "Whatever you say." Winsome begins to back away, back towards the couch. "I'll just . . ." He waves a gloved hand dismissively. "Leave ya alone. You can take care of yourself."

He pauses again, looking shamefully down at the ground. "I'm probably just annoyin' you or something, don't worry." Then he sits down, gaze trembling on me for a moment before he forces his gaze back on the screen of the television.

It's a minor moment of tension, but it leaves me feeling a bit guilty all the same. I stare at him, waiting endlessly for him to turn back, but he stays put. He knows I'm watching him, and he doesn't want to give in. I want to apologize for getting worked up over a simple glass of water and that it isn't his fault, but the words don't make it past my lips. Like everything else, like my fear of Rudy, I'm terrified of saying it. That word. _Sorry._

Slowly and reluctantly, I make my way towards the kitchen sink, and I fill the cup with water. It's shamefully silent aside from the water itself, and I look over my shoulder to see if Winsome's looking. To my surprise, he is, and we briefly make eye contact for a moment. I try to apologize through my the way I look at him, but he only gives me a small smile and turns away again.

I turn off the sink and stare at the cup of water in my hands. Suddenly, I don't feel very thirsty anymore. I set it next to me as I lean on the kitchen counter, looking to see what Winsome's watching, only to find out that he's turned the television off. He's just staring into an empty screen as I stare into the empty air, both of us not knowing what to say.

Then Winsome starts the conversation, but unfortunately, it is picked up from before.

"Sorry," he tells me. I look up at him, meeting his jade green eyes with my faint purple ones. "Sorry for buggin' ya." Winsome fidgets with the cloth of his gloves, almost as white as his painted face. "I know you can take care of yourself, but . . . I guess I just get a bit too worried sometimes." He nervously laughs. "Sorry for that."

We stare for a while longer. I pick up the cup of water, but I don't drink it. He breaks the silence with a shallow sigh.

"And talkin' like this, that's probably annoyin' ya, too! Heh." He uncomfortably shrugs. "I can't blame anybody. It's what I do. Don't know how to really, uh, stop it-"

"You're not annoying me," I mutter, catching his attention. "I'm just tired."

Winsome nervously laughs again. "Don't have to take the blame for me, Maddy. I can handle it."

"I-It's not your blame," I tell him more firmly, throat becoming more sore as I speak. "I'm just a bit . . . pissed off." At myself. I rub the bridge of my nose, closing my eyes. "I'm not mad at you. I'm really tired, Winsome, I- I don't- I don't want to rough you out. You're not annoying me. I'm . . . not in the mood to talk."

"Oh." Winsome's grin is wiped from his face, slowly erasing itself into the air. "Okay." He stares at me with a shadow of condolence. "Thanks, Ormad."

I slowly nod, a small smile crossing my face. But it isn't genuine. It almost hurts.

When he smiles back and looks away, I let it drop. I raise the cup of water to my lips and begin to take sips from it. I didn't put much water in it in the first place, so a few moments later, the cup becomes completely empty, and I put it in the sink. The dryness from my tongue and throat has barely been soothed.

I don't know what Winsome is truly thinking. He isn't good at hiding his emotions as everybody else, but he is fairly skilled at handling guilt. For me, it's the complete opposite; I've spent years working up my cold exterior, too afraid to let anybody in. I'd never felt guilt because I was completely alone. I had nobody to take care of or watch over. Occasionally, the guilt that I _did_ feel was always directed towards myself, from degrading of my actions and how weak and vulnerable I truly was.

Then Rudy came. She is the one who opened me up. The rebellious little girl, a severe contrast to who I really was, saved me from possibly going insane. _She loves me._ I care for her because of that love, because she turned me from a malicious, cold-hearted bastard to the calm man she knows today.

But when am I going to see her again?

I limp over to Winsome, managing to sit down at his side without falling over. He pretends not to notice me, so I tell myself to do the same. We ignore each other and stare ahead at the television's dark and empty screen, like an endless void for us to completate what to to say. But it seems that nothing has escaped from our mouths.

Slowly, I move one of my cold, sore arms next to his own. His warmth causes a series of tingling in my spine. I'm still not used to it, the warmth of another person. Nobody knows how much it means to me. Through the millions of years I've reigned as an immortal, living alone in my dark home, I've rarely encountered the presence of someone else. All of them were human. _Mortals._ I loved them. They had reached into my mind and gave me comfort. And now they're gone.

And I fear that Rudy will suffer the same fate.

Winsome wraps his hand around mine and squeezes it, not yet looking at me. Then he gently rubs my palm with his thumb. I glance over to him.

"I'm sorry," I finally manage, struggling to keep my tone even.

Winsome blinks. Then he gives me a kind smile, patting me on the shoulder. "It's all right, Maddy. It's all right."

I wish for him to hug me, to let me bury my face into his shoulder and to leave all my weight off. I just want to be held and lifted. I'm too tired. But I keep my mouth shut, acknowledging him with only a sad gleam in my eye. The scars continue to burn, tickling my skin like little bugs. I don't allow any of that internal pain to show.

Winsome sighs, giving my hand another squeeze before letting go, twining his fingers together. "You should go outside. Get some fresh air. Maybe it'll make ya feel better."

"Are you coming with me?" I ask quietly, afraid for him to leave.

He shrugs. "I'd rather stay in here, to be honest. Better for people not to see someone like me outside." With a concerned gleam in his eye, he adds, "But I'll watch ya." The clown stands up, walking into the kitchen. "I'm gonna make some coffee and maybe get a book to read. You can just sit out on the back porch or somethin'. That'll make ya feel better." A smile crosses his face before he begins to make his drink.

I don't know how long my eyes are on him, but it takes me some time to get the motivation to move. Slowly, I wobble up to my feet. My head spins, a thunderstorm dully pounding inside. I keep my hands on one of the couch's arms to keep myself standing.

"Do you need any help, Maddy?" Winsome asks me.

"N-No," I breathe. "I'm fine."

Slowly, I make my way towards the door of the back porch, soon stepping outside into the fresh air. It almost causes me to sway from the sudden coolness against my skin, for it's a drastic difference compared to the gloomy air inside the house. It's not because the house hasn't been taken care of. It's just because she isn't here.

I sit on the first few steps, massaging the bridge of my nose. The sky is a shiny grey, and the sun has been playing hide and seek with the dark and dangerous clouds. But there is barely anything to take in. It all just feels so blank, almost a direct reflection of myself.

The grass has taken a more dull color, cuddling flowers that aren't as vibrant as before. It's because she isn't here. I want to feel her beside me, that sweet little girl who I love so much and too much. I can't ever be happy without her. The air feels a bit damp now, the lump in my throat hard to swallow as I stare at the sky once more. That's when a single raindrop touches my face, and its fellow friends begin to fall as well.

I should make a little garden. Rudy and I don't have much to do here, anyway. She'll pick the pink flowers and I'll plant them for her. Just to make her laugh as she plays with them, and then I'll smile along with her. We'll be sitting together, _right here,_ and I'll listen to everything she says. I'll listen to her.

The thought makes me smile, just a little bit.

A thick tree sits across the yard. Its branches droop melancholically, leaves dangling in the gentle wind. I suddenly feel more tired than I already am. My eyes begin to flutter, giving into the migraine in my head. I close my eyes, trying to rest in this precious moment I have.

I hear the slide of the door behind me, and I try not to huff in irritation as footsteps start to trail behind me. But my mood shifts when I hear who it is.

"Hey, Ormad," the boy quietly greets me. He walks around me, his big black eyes like shining pebbles shimmering with concern. "Are you okay?"

Slowly, I look up at the boy's face, tongue caught in my throat because I don't know what to say. How could I?

"Your eyes are a bit puffy," he notices. "If you've been crying, you can tell me about it."

"N-No," I rasp quietly, shaking my head. "I'm okay."

Jess was Rudy's first friend. He was the one who introduced her to their school, which was completely new to her, and thus completely clung like magnets. I don't understand how he can be so patient and kind at such a young age. Everything in his appearance seems to represent peace; his dark skin is like the bark of an oak tree, his round eyes like a black starry night. On his face pastes a welcoming smile, brighter than his colorfully dyed hair. The child sheds pity for just about anyone he comes across, and I almost feel bad for letting him be so humble. But I don't want to ruin him. He's too innocent.

The boy sits at my side, small but not as much as Rudy. He holds a look of concern. "Are you sure?" he asks. "You can tell me. I don't mind. Especially after . . . what happened." He pauses, staring at the bandages wrapped around my arms and neck, dark spots beginning to appear on them. It's soaking up plenty of blood.

"I mean, you don't really have to if you're uncomfortable," he quickly adds. "I just want to make sure you're okay. And I want you to vent out to me if you need it-"

"No, kid." I let out a sigh. He's so mature that I almost feel pity. He's more mature than most of the adults I've seen. "Please . . . don't stress yourself out." With the pounding pain in my head, I don't even know if I can convince him to leave me alone.

Jess slowly shakes his head. "You're not stressing me out," he says quietly. One of his gentle hands moves onto my bruised knuckles. Warmth seeps through my skin, and I feel myself tense.

It doesn't matter how kind the child wants to be to me. It doesn't matter how much he wants to try and understand. All this talk about myself and what I'm so upset about leaves a dull soreness in my stomach, which reminds me - disturbingly - of Rudy. I squeeze my eyes shut when I try to imagine how that scene was: how she was on the floor, caked in red. Then I snap my eyes back open. I don't want to vomit again. It feels terrible.

Jess gives my hand a little squeeze, and he sheds a soft smile. "Okay. If you don't feel comfortable telling me, I'm alright. As long as you feel alright, too."

 _Alright,_ he says. He wants me to feel alright. But the only internal thought I can launch back at the question is, _suicide._ I want to kill myself. I'm too scared to go to the hospital and I'm too scared to stay here. I don't know what else I could do.

Scooting a bit closer to me, Jess asks, "Do you want me to heal you?" Like all of Rudy's friends (and Rudy herself), Jess is a psychic. As Rudy can predict future events, Jess can heal wounds like they're nothing but a simple scratch. _If only I could've gotten to him faster._ The torn skin on my body feels right, like they're meant to stay there. I deserve it.

"No," I mutter.

Jess seems surprised. He blinks, and he frantically shakes his head. "Why not? It'd be better. And easier to move around."

"I'm fine, Jess, alright?" I turn to him, keeping a glare from slipping onto my face. "I don't want you to heal me. Save your energy for later. I'm frustrated as hell."

He blinks again, like he's observing me for the first time. I know he wants to ignore my refusal and heal me anyway, with how his fingers are curled and ready to touch the bandages wrapped around me. But he stands his ground, and I stand mine.

"Oh. Okay." He lets go of my hand, smile wavering. "Whatever suits you."

Something icy smarts in my chest. My angry glare softens. It's so difficult for me to accept comfort, no matter how much I really want it. The warmth. The love. The way people tell me that everything's going to be alright. Jess is such a good kid for wanting to take care of me. I don't know why I won't let him, even though I bury the greedy answer deep, deep down.

"I'm sorry," Jess tells me, "for what happened."

His once warm voice sounds sullen and gloomy, and it strikes a cold chill down my spine. The constant reminder of _her_ will dance on my back over and over again. I just know it. Slowly, I shake my head, closing my eyes and letting the migraine drown me. "No need," I manage.

"I don't know what to say about it," Jess mutters. "I don't want to say anything that might upset you."

Running a hand through my hair and slightly pulling at the dark roots, I let out a groan. "I don't give a damn about what you say as long as you give me some rest." A strand of my hair curls around my bony finger. "I don't want to think about her right now."

"Okay," Jess slowly replies. "I can do that. I'll try and tell everybody else, too."

But even with his reassuring agreement, I doubt that any of this will help. I just want to go back into my room, flop down onto my bed, and sleep for a very long time. I want to sleep until I see Rudy again. All this frustration and pain is impossible for me to bear.

"Hey." Jess taps me on the shoulder. "Akilah and I are going out for ice cream today. I think it'd be nice for you to have some, too." He gives me a grin. "Maybe it'll wake you up a bit."

"Ah, no, kid, I can't come with you." I tug at the roots of my hair a bit more roughly, trying to dull out the internal ache. "I feel sick. I- I wouldn't be able to watch over you."

"Winsome can come," he quickly adds. "He can watch over us. You can just kick back and rest. We'll hang out in the car and he can get the ice cream."

If anything, being in a _car_ of all things would only make me more tense and nauseous. Usually, it wouldn't, but that empty, claustrophobic feel would tear me apart. Especially when her presence isn't next to me.

"Or," Jess says before I can, "maybe we'll just hang outside. You don't even have to go anywhere. We'll just get something for you instead, and then we'll sit in the park or something." He nudges me gently. "Anything to make you feel better!"

"Jess . . ."

"Ice cream is nice, after all. You like it, right? You like taro. Ru- I mean, _I_ do, too. But I like mint chocolate chip so much more." His smile widens, one of excitement, and he tries not to notice my wince at the accidental name drop. "It'll be nice. And refreshing, too. Staying in the house all day isn't going to do anything."

I let out a sigh. "Jess, I don't think-"

"Sorry if I'm bugging you," he interrupts, almost yelping. "But I just want you to feel better, that's all. You always like going out for ice cream, anyway. Maybe you-"

" _Alright_. I'll go," I mutter moodily, almost rolling my eyes. The boy's enthusiasm is killing me. I cross my arms, staring at my feet. "Just because I have nothing else to do."

Like a firefly, his face lights up. His smile grows. "That's great! I'll call Akilah. And Winsome can drive us to the ice cream place. It'll be fun!"

"Yeah."

"No pressure, if you don't really wanna go." Jess leaps up onto his feet, almost bouncing up and down on his heels. "But I'm happy that you're coming along, anyway! It's been such a long time since I've had a treat like that."

"Yeah," I continue to say pessimistically, forcing myself to sound more lively than I really am. "Right."

Jess doesn't notice. He is a master with emotions, but when something excites him, he is almost blind to it all. He can't be blamed; he's still a kid. He shouldn't be given such high expectations.

The boy's puffy blue hair almost bounces off his head when he twirls around, nearly skipping into the door. "You can come in and get ready when you feel like it," he tells me.

Then Jess disappears inside, leaving me alone and already regretting my decision.


	5. Chapter 5

5

 _I feel too tired to even use my shapeshifting ability, but I force myself to go into disguise anyway, even when I don't have the motivation to do so_. Glaring in the mirror, I still look sick. It's like someone took a human skull and tried to make it seem alive again. I wouldn't be surprised if people cowered away from me as I passed them on the street. I am more unhealthy than ever before. _Mentally and emotionally_.

I don't even want to make myself look presentable. With my dark, wrinkled jeans and thuggish, gangster-esque jacket, I look like a bastardous old punk. _Edgy,_ Rudy would've called me, like she has done so many times before. Before, it sparked a sense of humor and joy. Now it just hurts.

The bandage on my neck is still visible, as well as the many scars that I have given myself before. They are faint and grey. I still feel their heat when I grow anxious or angry. It's so tempting to try and tear them open again until everything's too numb to even burn. But I've controlled these urges to the best of my ability, and people have told me that they are proud to see that I have taken care of myself.

It's a warm feeling, hearing people say, "I'm so proud of you," or, "You've done such a good job." Throughout my entire life, I've stayed alone with only enemies and cold, malicious grudges to fight off. That's how I learned to control my emotions, my facial expressions, my fake smile that I would stretch my mouth into whenever someone tried to intimidate me. My composure was _stupendous_. Now, with people to care for, it's difficult to seem stoic and emotionless. Now I want everybody to know how much I suffer through, and I want them to love me despite all my flaws. It's difficult explaining all of this to a simple mind, but to the people who are close to me, the ones that I now call _family,_ they understand.

I mess with my hair a bit, combing the short strands back with my fingers. Then I sigh, turning away from my miserable reflection and doing my best to walk back to the living room. My posture is stiff, back hunched and knees buckling back and forth. I hope that I will at least stay _awake,_ because all I want to do is sleep. I don't know if I can even keep my eyes open.

I saunter out the door anyway, collapsing onto the couch as I wait for the others to get ready.

"You know, I don't remember the last time I drove a car," Winsome rambles. His tanned hands caress the steering wheel, almost playfully. It's as if he's trying to forget what happened last night. It must be easier for him. "Back in the Demon World, we ain't _got_ anything like this. In fact, all of our vehicles are bizarre as hell!"

"You still remember what it was like there?" Jess asks curiously. He's sitting in the passenger's seat, leaving me behind and alone. My neck and shoulders are already aching from having to scrunch up; this car is rather small.

"Ah, yeah." Winsome shrugs. "It's been a long time since I've got kicked out. But I'm _glad_ I got kicked out, y'know? I met you guys."

"What did you get kicked out for? Was it . . . thievery, maybe? Or were you pranking all the other demons?"

Winsome giggles like a child, eyes beaming at Jess. "Nah, seńor. Demons do that all the time, even in other places."

"Well, then what _did_ you do?" Jess asks.

Like the clown he is, Winsome winks, his long eyelashes still visible in his humanly form.

"For a few decades, I never paid my taxes."

They continue to joke around and chat like oblivious machines, casting a few glances to me every moment or two but never inviting me into the conversation. I glumly stare out one of the windows. It's the perfect day to go outside, with the warm sun and puffy clouds. I roll down the window at my side and take a breath of the fresh air, and somehow, I feel a little bit more hopeful. Perhaps this will wake me up, even just a little bit.

Then we pass by a patch of bright pink flowers, and that ounce of hope inside of me dies. Doubt drags me back into its home.

After what seems to be years, Jess finally perks up. "How are you feeling, Ormad?"

I try not to glower at him. I could write an entire book about how I'm feeling. "What do you think?" I mutter. "Rudy's gone."

The boy's joyful light burns out, a hurt shadow replacing it. I don't know if it's for Rudy or me, or maybe himself for having to deal with such a moody monster.

"Well . . . she'll get better," he assures me, forcing his smile.

"How do you know?"

Jess freezes for a moment, eyes widening. He quickly turns around in his seat. Winsome tenses as well. "Hey, maybe I can heal you up," Jess offers hastily. "You didn't want it before, but I think it's better. Maybe it'd be easier for you to speak."

"Did you visit her?" I lean forward a bit, trying to get him to look at me.

"Yeah. Of course. She's doing fine. She's got stitches and stuff." Jess rubs the back of his neck. "But-"

"-but they didn't let him in," Winsome interrupts abruptly. "The doctors just said that she needed rest. That's all."

There is a foul aura in the air that I can sense, one of deceit and regret. I squint my eyes at them. _They're lying,_ one voice says in my head. And then, _No. They're your family. They would never lie to you._ I despise this strange, hollow and intense fire inside of me. That doubt in the back of my head almost taunts me.

"Could I see her?" I ask hesitantly.

"Uh- well-" Winsome shrugs. "I can't really answer that right now, Maddy. I'm driving."

"They said that she needs rest," Jess reassures hastily. "I don't think we can see her. Yet."

Before I can inquire anything else, Jess interrupts me. "Oh! There's Akilah!" He exaggerates his point by wildly flailing his hand, pointing outside.

Like a magician, the girl appears, her mint green hijab flowing in the wind. She is pudgy and out of shape, but she walks tall and strong. She almost regards the cement she stands on with a royally confident look, her lips pursed into a thin line. Akilah's dark skin is turned golden brown by the sun, and her almond eyes shimmer elegantly. No wonder why Rudy likes her; she has someone her age to look up to.

Behind Akilah is the ice cream shop, and compared to her, it is bland and forgettable. Rudy has asked me many times before if I could allow her and Akilah to be officially titled as _girlfriends,_ and though the idea is cute, I'd rather not have them be together at an age so young. But if it makes my little girl happy, then I will allow them to be a couple.

 _If only she were here._

Winsome and Jess step out of the car first, and I almost drag myself to follow them. I don't want to be here. I just want to go home. I just want to see her again. She would _love_ to have some ice cream with us. But she's so far away . . . That hole in my chest grows, deeper into my cold, dead heart.

As Akilah looks us all in the eye, her gaze gently settles onto me. The girl's calm expression suddenly turns into one of concern. She must be wondering why I'm out in such an unhealthy state. Immediately, she walks to me, looking me up and down as I tower over her.

"Why are you out here?" the child asks. "I thought that you'd want to stay at home."

I force a smile, and it wavers. "Oh no," I answer, trying to keep my tone from shaking. "I'm fine, Akilah. Going out for fresh air is . . ." I fish for the word that will make me sound convincing. ". . . soothing."

She frowns. "Are you sure? Because after what happened . . ."

"He's okay," Winsome interrupts. "Maddy's good." His green eyes shift to me, trying to lighten the mood by passing a kind smile on his face. But I don't return the enthusiasm.

Jess bursts into the conversation and leaps towards Akilah, wrapping his thin arms around her shoulders. "Hi, Aki!" he greets excitedly. "Thank you for coming out here with us!"

The girl softly smiles, patting him on the back. "I'm glad to be with you." Then she looks up at Winsome, smirking. "You're coming along, too?"

"Aiya, Aki!" he exclaims. "I just want the ice cream, that's all."

They all laugh at the subtle joke, leaving me out of the group.

I can't help but feel a bit isolated. Look at them, all happy, smiling at each other and acting like I'm not here next to them. And then there's me: a grim, grave, grumbling and grouchy. I don't even want to force myself to _look_ like them. Feigning my joy feels uncomfortable, for some odd reason.

"I'm here, too," I murmur, quietly enough so that they don't hear.

We enter the ice cream shop, the sweet smell of many flavors and ingredients floating in the air. It fights against the gloominess surrounding me, and, being weak and tired, I let it take me over. Even if it only irritates me, I will at least try to forget what happened. Just for a little while.

There aren't many people in the shop today. Just a few children and couples sitting at the booths and tables. Jess frolics over to the cashier, looking at the displays with wondrous eyes. Winsome follows close to him. Akilah, meanwhile, stays by my side. She gently tugs on my sleeve.

"I'm sorry for what happened," she cooes. "I'm really sorry."

I sigh. I wonder how many times people will tell me that. _I'm sorry,_ they'll say over and over again. For what? My loss? The reminder that Rudy is bleeding out, away from my loving arms? Akilah stays silent, not wanting to interrupt my dark thoughts.

"It's not your fault," I mutter, staring at the colorful pastel tiles on the wall. "It's mine."

"No. Don't blame yourself for it. You didn't do anything."

"I wasn't there." I look at Jess and Winsome as they begin to discuss what flavors and toppings they want. "I could've come home earlier."

"No, no." Akilah crosses her arms, almost seemingly scolding me like a parent would to their child. _The comparison hurts._ "The blame isn't on anyone. Rudy got hurt, but we don't know who did it. And you didn't stab her, and I didn't stab her. We don't know who broke in and did it to her, okay? So don't put the blame on yourself." She smiles softly at me. "You didn't do anything bad."

I swallow a lump down my throat, my gaze wavering as I stare at the wall again. That's all I want to hear. Someone relieving me of my stress and guilt. Deep down, I feel a spark of gratitude light inside of me. "Thank you," I manage.

Akilah leans against my arm for a few moments. Now that I look at her, her hijab shapes her face into a heart. She pushes all that love to me.

"Aki, Ormad." Winsome saunters over to us, his green eyes glimmering like emeralds. Obviously, his mood has been lifted, just like mine. "What do ya wanna get?"

"I like pistachio," Akilah answers. "Chocolate chip for toppings."

In front of us, Jess turns around, scrunching his nose up in humorous disgust. "Pistachio is a flavor? _Ew_."

"What do you mean, 'ew'?" Akilah exclaims. "It tastes good! _Superman_ is the bad flavor."

At that, Winsome shoots her a look of horror, but he grins along with them. "Ex _cuse_ me, Aki, but the more colors, the better!" He stands straight, making him stretch with an almost hilariously pompous posture. "In fact, there are so many colors that you can't taste anything."

They all laugh, and I find myself shedding the smallest of smiles.

We take our frozen treats out into the park, where we sit at a bench and chat amongst ourselves. It smells sweet and cool. Jess and Akilah are talking about schoolwork and teachers, Winsome making fun of them every so often. "What are you kids doin', makin' fun of those poor grownups?" he jokes. "You should be _pranking_ them instead!"

I chew at the plastic spoon in my hand, nervously thinking to myself. I highly doubt that it's okay for me to be so calm when _Rudy's in the hospital._ But she wouldn't want to see me so glum, would she? I'm sure she wouldn't. In fact, she'd most likely love to see me doing _anything_ but mourning for her.

Looking at the purple ice cream in front of me, I wonder what flavor Rudy would've gotten if she were here. I have taro; she most likely would get something to match with me. Perhaps something pink, like strawberry. I don't know. Thinking about such sweet things like this relieves the leftover stress, and I instead focus on finishing my ice cream instead of Rudy's current state. It soothes the wound in my throat.

Akilah scoots closer to me, tugging on my sleeve gently. "Are you feeling better?"

"Yes," I reply.

As if I had just told her a miracle, she beams brightly. Her eyes shine a dark hazel. "Good!" she exclaims. "I'm very glad."

In the wind, a lock of her curly hair escapes from the shelter of her hijab, and she bats it aside, tucking it back in. Her organization and tidiness is a large contrast to Rudy, who rarely gives a damn about how she looks or what she does.

Seeing Akilah and I closer to each other, Jess decides to follow. He scoots up right next to the girl, still finishing his mint ice cream. "I'm glad, too!" he says with a mouthful of the cold dessert. "Maybe you can come over to my house! My mom wants us to have a dinner together. With Brody and Elysse, too."

Excluding Rudy, Jess, and Akilah, Brody and Elysse are two other psychic children. They are as close to Rudy as everybody else is, but Brody seems to share the strongest bond with her. They're like brother and sister, and it's heartwarming to look at their interactions. Too bad Rudy won't be here tonight.

"I'm coming," Akilah says.

"Me too," Winsome adds on, peeking over Jess' shoulder. "Seńorita Denbrak cooks _very_ well. And I love eating all the food she makes."

"She's making steak tonight," Jess explains. "I don't think you've guys had it before. It's _really_ good!" He scoops another bite of ice cream into his mouth. "To be honest, it's the best I've ever had. _Ever._ And I thought that the ones at the restaurants downtown were the greatest!"

Jess's mother, Faith, is just as kind and generous as her young son. Even as an everyday, powerless human, she knows how to show care and affection for beings like me. It strikes me as strange. She knows of the things I have done in the past, and yet she ignores all of it to take care of me, anyway. I feel selfish thinking that we have some sort of connection, but I can't help it.

"I'd be happy to come," I tell Jess. "It'd be nice."

As if I am some sort of miracle, Jess, Akilah and Winsome gawk in surprise. I stare blankly back at them. I don't understand why they're so shocked. I'm able to function, can I not? Even with a part of me still broken.

Then they give me smiles, hiding their previous worries and concerns. "I'm glad that you're coming!" Jess says, nudging my arm gently with his elbow. I wince, his touch rubbing against a few of my injuries. "My mom will be happy to see you again."

"She will?"

"Definitely! You guys are like BFFs! She even said so herself."

Slowly, I feel the ghost of a smile cross my lips, and I look down. "Aw. How sweet. I'm flattered."

His mother and I have been close for many months, and contact with his father has also increased the familial bond. It has a similar feeling with Rudy and me, except instead of me watching over Faith, it's like Faith is watching over me.

"I'll check with my parents," Akilah says, already pulling out her phone as she scoops some pistachio ice cream into her mouth. "I don't know what they're doing tonight."

"I'll be coming as well, seńor!" Winsome tugs lightly on Jess' sleeve, grinning and showing off his bright white teeth. "Nothing will stop me from getting more food~"

And nothing will stop me from getting more comfort.


	6. Chapter 6

6

 _Jess' home is warm and cozy, and it gives me the sense that I am completely safe._

The walls are pale and grey, giving me a protective shield to keep me away from any dangers that lurk outside. The sweet smell of flowers lurk into my nostrils, but it causes my eyes to water and my nose to twitch. I don't understand how an entity like me can have _allergies._ It makes no sense.

Still, as I let out squeaky sneezes and sniffles, Faith Denbrak pats me gently on the shoulder. She has given many of her facial features to her son; her round eyes are dark and smooth, her black hair puffy and wrapped into a long tail. She gives me a kind smile, and it causes a warm feeling in my stomach.

"Why are you still near these plants, hm?" she teases me. "You're allergic to them."

"I know." I sniffle, wiping tears from my eyes. My wounded throat is even worse with the rapidly growing rashes on my neck. "But they're so beautiful."

Faith laughs, putting a hand on my back and guiding me away from the pots of flowers. "I know that you think they're beautiful," she says. "But you should still stay away from them. Okay?"

"Fine," I reply, lightly smiling.

She smiles back. There's a beam of sunshine in her eyes, and she almost seems like some sort of goddess. I wouldn't be surprised if she was.

"Ormad," she then says, smile fading. "Have you visited Rudy yet?"

Slowly, my sheepish grin disappears as well. _I shouldn't be worrying too much,_ I tell myself. _Rudy wouldn't like that._ Then another voice shoots back, _And so what if Rudy doesn't like that? I need to care for her. She needs someone to worry for her._

"No," I admit. I look at the ground for a moment. Fatih's gaze of worry weighs down onto me. "I don't think I have the energy to."

The woman says nothing for a moment, trying to decipher the emotion that I'm struggling with. They all tangle me, wrapping around my throat and preventing me from saying what I really want to say. All I have to do is use the leftover enthusiasm from before and try to mold myself into it.

Faith sighs deeply. There is a softness in her voice when she speaks again. "Take your time, Ormad," she consoles me. "Rudy won't be going anywhere."

I glance at her, my gaze wavering. "I dearly hope not."

She gently squeezes my shoulder. "She won't. I promise," she says, voice trailing off as she finishes her sentence. "Now, I have to go cook up some food with Winsome. Get some rest, okay?"

"Okay."

Her hand and warmth leaves me, and she walks away into the kitchen.

I don't know what is it that attracts me to Faith. She's almost exactly like Jess, except a little bit more serious in terms of being a mother. It isn't anything romantic between us. I have left behind the idea of romance a long time ago. Plus, she already has a husband. There would be no point in trying to pry.

I suppose that it's because most human _adults_ I've met in life are venomous. The children are far too innocent to be blamed for anything they may not know. I've seen criminals sprout out of their territories just to get something they don't need, but something that they really want. I think that one of those criminals were me.

 _Faith feels different,_ I tell myself, sauntering to the living room where all the children are chatting, resting on the couches and floor. Faith gives me . . . well, _faith._ She surely lives up to her name.

The children's voices die down when I step into the room. They don't seem afraid, but the worry from before continues to wriggle into their faces. Jess and Akilah wave shyly as if I will punish them for not greeting me. I simply muster up a smile, trying to hide my worries. _Just think about ice cream. You liked the ice cream. Everybody else did, too._

"Do you know where my 3Ds is?" Jess asks. "I can't find it."

"We spent a really long time trying to find it," Akilah adds. "Brody and Elysse are trying to find it right now."

"Really?" I raise my brows. "Where are they?"

"In my room!" Jess answers. "They think it's in there. Where else would it be?"

I sigh, looking in the direction of the hallway. "Well, then I suppose I'll go and help." There isn't anything else I can do, anyway. I want to go back and talk to Faith or Winsome. Especially Faith. I so badly want to have a motherly figure in my life to watch over me.

"Thanks, Ormad!" Jess says.

As I back away into the darkness of the hallway, Jess and Akilah resume their conversation. Guiltily, I feel a pang of jealousy. _Why aren't they paying more attention to me?_ My daughter is stabbed.

Then I jerk myself back into focus. _No. Don't think about that. Distract yourself._

I turn to one of the many doors on my right, knocking on it with my bony fist. From the other side, a gritty voice - Brody - rings out. " _Come in_!"

I open the door and step into the room, the frustrating scent of petunias and lavender entering my nostrils. I feel my nose twitch, and I immediately bend over, letting out a squeaky sneeze. _Goddamnit._ I keep forgetting that Jess has flowers in his room. I do my best to stand up straight as a wave of itchiness washes over my face, my eyes beginning to water wildly.

Through the irritating tears, I see two blurry figures, both smaller than me. I growl to myself and wipe my eyes, grumbling, "God! How many damn flowers are in this house?"

"Uh, Mrs. Denbrak just got a new batch a few days ago," Brody replies. "I don't know why she got them. Sorry for that."

My cheeks are damp with tears as I sniffle and sneeze again. " _Please tell her to stop . . ._ " I groan tiredly.

"Sorry," a different voice exclaims, dry and brittle. _Elysse._ "We didn't know that you were coming over . . ."

The blurry figures inch closer to me, and through irritated eyes, I discern the basic features of the pair. The taller one is Brody, with an angular pale face and a slick back mullet colored brown. The shorter one is Elysse, with a sharp chin and dull ginger hair. Both like the rest of the kids: immediately recognizable.

I manage with a scratchy voice, "I didn't know, either. I just- _achoo_!"

"Yeah, let's get out of the room," Brody ushers, moving past me to exit. Elysse looks up at me nervously before following, and I have no other choice but to tail behind them.

The pressuring itchiness finally leaves my face, and I let out a sigh of relief. I wipe away the remaining tears burning in my eyes. Brody and Elysse are in clear sight now, and, just like everybody else who talked to me today, they have looks of concern. I dearly hope that they don't bring up Rudy again.

Brody scrunches his nose, glancing at me with pale blue eyes. "Why'd you come? I thought you were sick."

"Sick?" I repeat. "I'm nothing close to sick." The lie is bitter on my tongue, like the alcohol from last night.

"Winsome said you were sick," Brody continues. "You're at least feeling better, right?"

 _No._ "I suppose," I answer wearily. "I went out for ice cream. I liked that."

Elysse's jade-tinted eyes glimmer, small diamonds appearing in her pupils. "Really? I thought you didn't like eating anything."

I sigh, looking down. It is true. I never like eating anything, being an entity who didn't need to eat in the first place. But I only ate because Rudy always suggests me to. She wants to make me as happy as possible. Whatever sweet she wants me to try, I'll try it because she wants to hear my words on it, even when it's just a little candy. She seems happy when I try new things.

"I thought it would be refreshing," I answer reluctantly, that empty hole inside of me starting to open up again. "I thought it would wake me up."

"I mean, if you're happy after it, then that's cool," Brody says. "I just hope you're not really . . . like, super upset about what happened."

I stop myself from wincing, my fists clenching at my sides. This poor teenager didn't know the parasite of despair that was growing, eating me from the inside out. _Distract yourself,_ I hiss. _Distract yourself._

". . . I was. But I know that she's okay now." Again, the lie bites my tongue. "She's all right."

Brody isn't as gullible as Jess. He squints his eyes at me. I stare back, gaze as cold and hard as stone. But inside, I feel myself begin to crack like an egg. _Don't think about her. She's completely fine._

Meanwhile, Elysse stays quiet, pretending not to notice my sudden grimness. She's a shy girl. One who's always afraid of saying something wrong. She plays with the strands of her hair, making them seem like the feathers of a phoenix. Though I want this conversation to end, I also want to invite her into it.

"I mean, _okay_." Brody shrugs. "But you don't have to cover up yourself. I'm okay talking about her. We can-"

"I'm fine," I force out. "It's okay."

From behind us, I hear Jess call, "Have you guys found my 3Ds yet?"

"No," Brody calls back. "We couldn't find anything."

"Aw."

Elysse mumbles, "But we found a stuffed animal . . ."

Brody blinks, furrowing his brow before realizing. "Oh yeah!" he exclaims. He strides into the living room. "We found Jaw-Jaw!"

I hear Jess gasp. "The alligator with the top hat and spectacles? You found him?" And that's when they begin to celebrate and ramble about stuffed animals and old toys.

A little bit of disappointment wriggles into my gut, a sick feeling twirling in my stomach. Loneliness grasps me again, even when Elysse is right at my side, awkwardly looking at the floor. She seems to be zoning out. I gently nudge her shoulder. "Are you okay, Elysse?"

She jumps from my cold touch, wide eyes darting up to look at me. "Huh?"

"Are you okay?"

Elysse blinks, taking some time to process my question and biting at her nails. "Yeah," she mutters. "I'm good." Like a twitching frog, she suddenly darts away from me, escaping my presence and leaving nothing but cold air around my arms. All the warmth inside of me turns to ice. _Nobody wants to be around me._

Slowly, I amble to the edge of one of the pastel walls, peeking out from the darkness at the kids. I feel so suddenly mournful. Here I am. Without the courage to join them because of this stupid _anxiety,_ the force that keeps me drowning in doubt. I shouldn't be feeling this. They're just _kids._ Then I remember, _kids who are friends of Rudy._ My head begins to ache, thinking that name over and over again. _It's because you worry too much about her. Your little girl._ That ache turns me dizzy as I force myself to lean on the wall.

The children's conversations turn to white noise. I watch them. Akilah and Jess are creating their own handshake, giggling and grinning childishly. Brody is listening to music on his red phone with his red earbuds and wearing his red jacket. Elysse looks over his shoulder to his screen, shyly curling up next to him. Like a big brother, he lets her wear one of his earbuds, and they listen together.

Brody is the oldest of the kids, peaking at the age of sixteen. He's the tallest of the kids as well. His psychic ability is almost like having the invisible eye, one that allows him to see creatures that nobody else can see. Creatures from the _Ri Verse,_ a different dimension from here. He's a tough kid, one with a bit of snark every now and then. He used to be one of the teens who picked on Rudy, Jess and Akilah before they all met me. Then through some convincing, he turned sides. Now he's like an older sibling to everybody.

Elysse came in a little bit later. She used to be a weary child, having only getting freetime because her abusive mother let her roam outside to see and talk to ghosts near the Em Auri church. Her mother never cared about her. Elysse was almost as fragile as paper. Someone could tear her piece by piece and she wouldn't be able to do anything at all. She wasn't even close to being safe.

But now, as Brody wraps a protective arm around her shoulders, I can tell that she is in a very special place.

"Hey Maddy." A hand taps me on the shoulder, and as I crane my neck around, Winsome's face comes into view. He softly smiles. My mouth stays in a grim line.

"You feelin' better?" he asks.

"Yes," I grumble, rolling my eyes sarcastically. "Of course. Everybody asked me that. So of course I'm supposed to be fine."

Winsome's smile droops. It's almost as if he has become a watercolor painting; when the paint is mixed at the right places, he can be outstanding. But a little mistake, like adding too much water or brushing paint in the right place, can mess it all up. All his colors seem to be mixing.

"Don't pressure yourself into that mindset, seńor," Winsome consoles. "You can be upset if you wanna be."

I can't help but scoff. Nobody understands me. "I'm not the one pressuring myself. It seems like everybody else is."

"How?"

"They're all pretending," I mutter. "It's like Rudy doesn't even exist."

Winsome's bright lips curl into a frown. He darts a quick glance at the laughing children on the couch and floor before looking back at me, his jaw clenching. "Maddy, you know they're just kids. They didn't forget about Rudy. Nobody can forget about Rudy!" He laughs nervously. "She's a good kid."

I sharpen my gaze into a glare. "If she's a good kid, then why is everybody not paying attention to her current state? She's in the goddamn hospital. I had her blood all over me yesterday afternoon. Why isn't anybody talking about that?"

"Well, erm . . ." Winsome looks to the side, slowly shrugging. "It's because we're kinda scared to bring up the topic." It sounds more like a questioning statement than a solid fact. "We don't wanna upset anybody."

"So we're just going to ignore her?"

"Look, Maddy, I'm not gonna stand here and talk to you about this." Winsome sighs. "I don't wanna get into an argument." He raises a hand and brings it to my shoulder, only thinking better of it and drawing it away. "I don't want any tension between us. Especially when tonight's supposed to be . . . you know, _happy._ Can ya try and relax? I want you to relax."

 _Relax?_ That word almost makes me laugh. I can feel the nape of my neck beginning to grow hot. There isn't any such thing as time to relax when my daughter's in the fucking _hospital_! What the hell is up with everybody?

I scoff again, this time louder and more brashly. I harden my glare until it's cold ice, right through Winsome's fragile face. But then I look closer; his eyes droop like teardrops, and his smile is now a worn-out frown. Slowly, my expression softens, my temper's claws slowly letting go of my shoulders.

"I- fine. Okay. I'll-" I take a deep breath, exhaling heavily. The anger leaves me. The exhaustion returns. "I'll try to. I can't guarantee. But . . . I'll try."

Winsome's dewey eyes widen in surprise. His lips form soundless words. Breathlessly, he nods, forcing a small smile. I wonder how many times he has pushed himself to feign his emotions, just for me.

"Good." He pats me on the shoulder hesitantly before slinking away, keeping his eyes off of my face. "I'm proud of you for trying."

When he disappears, his words become dull. Numb. _I'm proud of you._ I don't know if he means it or not.

Something deep inside of me tells me that there's no use pondering about that now.

The scents of roasting meat and lemony broccoli dance around the dinner table. Right in front of me is an empty plate, one that won't be stacked with food anytime soon. Everybody else is already beginning their conversations, leaving me out.

I stare gloomily into the empty air as Faith takes a seat next to me, the one that someone else is supposed to sit in. The atmosphere around me is supposed to be comforting. Welcoming. But instead I feel like I'm sinking deeper and deeper into the floor, nobody noticing me as I disappear.

Then they begin to talk again. _Talking, talking, talking._ That's all they do. I'm silent. I stare at the many colorful foods displayed before me. Mashed potatoes, broccoli, steak . . . everything that _she_ would like. She likes to eat just about anything. She wouldn't be joining the conversation. She'd be wolfing her meal down instead. And then I'd have to tell her to not talk with her mouth full when she did want to join the conversation like the heedful father I am.

My stomach hurts.

The only ones who are doing so much as casting me glances are Winsome, Faith and Brody. Winsome and Faith I can understand, however Brody I cannot help but feel puzzled about. The boy cares about me just as much as everyone else, but we don't speak deeply about each other. We don't reveal our inner emotions. I can't blame him. He's just a kid. But I don't know why he's deciding to pay attention to me instead of his friends.

I catch his eye for a moment, and we stare. He holds his fork like he's about to tear me open and see what emotions I'm trying to hide. But he blinks, and we break contact.

At the same time, a warm hand brushes against my leg, and I wearily turn to see who it belongs to. As expected, the owner is Faith. "Do you not want to eat?" she asks quietly, shadowing herself underneath the chatter of the children.

Something deep inside of me suspects that she wants me to leave. Then I shake it off. _No, Faith wouldn't want that, would she?_ "I don't know," I reply.

"Join us, honey. I don't want you to feel left out. Have some." She gestures toward the food on the table.

Little does Faith know, she has already hit me in a raw wound. I know she is trying to comfort me, but the words crawl into my ears as forms of mockery. Still, my shoulders droop, and I let out a quiet sigh. "Thank you," I mutter.

I outstretch an arm and take some of the sourly scented broccoli, scooping some mashed potatoes as well. I don't have an appetite. I have a feeling that if I were to eat right now, everything would taste the same: bland, boring, unchanging. But at least I'm doing the same thing as everyone else.

"Do you want any steak?" Faith asks. I shake my head, and she leaves me alone.

From across the table, Brody and Winsome eye me again. Winsome gives me a patient smile before turning back to his plate, but Brody stares as if he's in a daze. His eyes are like cold rock. I don't have the energy to discover what he wants.

"Mom," Jess says, "why are Beatrix and Dad not home yet?'

"Beatrix is staying at your dad's workplace again," Faith responds. She gestures for Elysse to hand over her plate so that she can properly cut her steak. Elysse awkwardly tenses up with an embarrassed look on her face, her hand uncomfortably gripped around her knife. "She wants to help him with extra files and stuff like that."

"Again?" Jess frowns. "But we're having such a good dinner . . . maybe you can call them over! You know, before all the food is gone."

"I made plenty of food. There will definitely be leftovers for them to have tomorrow."

"Aw. Okay."

Akilah clinks her plate with the prongs of her fork, humming to herself. Then she looks up. "Could I have some more pop?"

"Sure thing, sweetheart." Faith hands one of the giant bottles of pop to Akilah, letting her pour the drink in herself. "Does anybody else want to drink anything?"

 _I want to drink alcohol and forget everything that happened today._ "No," I mutter along with everybody else around me. I can barely hear my own voice. I don't try to make it heard.

"Thanks for the dinner, Mrs. Denbrak," Brody says, loudly crunching broccoli. "It's much better than the food at school."

Jess laughs. "Of course it is. School food is yucky."

"It really is," Akilah agrees. "The only thing I like there is the chips and salsa. Sometimes they have cheese to dip it in, too."

"And bean dip!" Jess adds.

"Really?" Brody lets out a snicker, lips forming a mischievous grin. "The bean dip doesn't even look like it's made outta beans. It looks like a lump of shit."

Upon hearing his profanity, Winsome snorts and avoids his gaze, looking elsewhere. Faith gives Brody a motherly frown. "No swearing at the dinner table, Brody. Even if it's not your own."

The kids continue to snicker and giggle amongst themselves, Winsome giving me a humorous glance. I glumly glare at him. Of course all the kids get all the attention. All the kids that are _here,_ at least. Nobody will really pay attention to _her_ unless something terrible and devastating happens to her. And I won't be there to mourn with them because I'll be laying in bed all day, crying my emptiness away.

I suddenly feel salty and bitter, and I force myself to swallow a bite of mashed potatoes. It tastes bland and blank, just like me.

The table is silent again, aside from the children whispering things to each other about school homework and projects. Winsome joins in on them, asking if they need any supplies, Faith following after him. Brody's eyes are on me again. This time, I force a glare onto him, pressuring him to dart his gaze away. But I know that when I pull my own gaze from him, he digs into my space once more.

Faith clears her throat. "So, Elysse. How are you doing with your new family?"

The redheaded girl jolts up as if she has been electrocuted. Her eyes dart around the table for a moment before finally resting on Faith, but she looks past the woman's shoulder instead of making direct eye contact. She slowly shrugs. "It's nice. They're much better than how my mom was . . ."

Faith nods patiently, used to the girl's slow speech and introverted manners. "That's good. They're very lucky to have such a sweet girl like you."

Elysse's lips perk up into a timidly petite smile. She looks down, letting her hair cover her face. From my angle, I see her fidget with her pale hands. " _Thank you,_ " she mumbles. Then everything is quiet again.

I know what we all want to talk about. I know _who_ we all want to talk about. I look up from my food to the faces around me. Faith locks eyes with mine. She pats me on the leg again, sighing quietly to herself. I turn and look at Winsome, who gives me a squiggly grin that seems to be hiding more than expected. I can just feel it. There's a weak but noticeable aura of negativity in the air, stringing from all of us. It trails from Faith the least, but everybody else, especially Brody, has it clear as glass. I would feed off of it if it wouldn't hurt them in the process. I need something to quench this sick ache inside of me.

After what seems forever, Jess finally cracks the ice. "I hope Rudy gets better."

Everybody tenses up. Winsome's hands clench to fists on the edge of the table as Akilah messes with the fabric of her hijab, trying to shape it into whatever will make her feel more comfortable. Jess' eyes dart towards me innocently, and Elysse looks away completely. Only Brody doesn't seem to be making an exaggerated reaction; he only swallows a lump down his throat, and Faith doesn't do anything out of the ordinary.

"She will, sweetheart," Faith says. "She's a strong girl with a strong mind. She will get out of it."

"Yeah," Brody agrees reluctantly, pushing a piece of broccoli around his plate with his fork. "She's good."

Unlike before, I listen intently, aiming to see what they say about Rudy, my daughter. They haven't spoken about her all day. Why now?

"We should get her a gift or somethin," Winsome exclaims through a mouthful of potatoes. "There's a gift shop in the hospital she's in. The lil' rat is gonna at least gonna get _something_ while she's recovering."

"Perhaps I'll pick out a nice card for her," I add, suddenly feeling a rush of energy. "I've never been in a gift shop in a hospital before, but-"

"Ah, no need, seńor." Winsome waves a hand frantically. "I'll get it for her. Then you can write in it and I'll give it to her."

I furrow my brow, sternly looking at him. "That . . . does not make any sense." But then again, when does a demonic clown like _Winsome_ make sense at all? "I don't know why you came up with that. I'll be the one getting the card and writing in it and giving it to her."

Winsome licks his colorful lips, frowning. "Ya sure?"

"Of course I am," I reply slowly. Is this some sort of joke? _When we're talking about Rudy?_ "Why wouldn't I be? Besides, I think it's time for me to visit her instead of sulking around all day by myself."

"Oh." He blinks, plump eyelashes seeming suddenly heavy. "Okay, but . . . I don't want ya to stress yourself out."

"I'm not going to go bizarre upon seeing her like that, Winsome," I mutter. "I know how to control myself."

"Yeah, I know, seńor. Good luck with that."

I narrow my eyes at him, then at everybody else for staying silent.

Faith clears her throat. "Well, Ormad, I know for a fact that she'll be _very_ happy to see you." She beams at me kindly, a motherly fashion suited into her smile. "And you'll be very happy to see her."

"I will be more than happy," I reply. "Overjoyed."

" _Yeah, overjoyed,_ " Brody repeats, mumbling underneath his breath so that only a few of us can hear him. There is a touch of sarcasm to his voice.

My frown deepens slightly. The negative aura in the air strengthens, now coming from Brody. I resist the urge to suck it all in.

Jess worriedly darts his eyes back and forth. "Hey, we should tell her about the homework when she gets back!"

Faith nods. "Definitely. We wouldn't want her to miss out. Though I'm sure she'll have a good excuse to go by. She literally got _stabbed_ , for goodness sake."

The image of her lying on the gr- _no. Don't think about that._ "Oh, poor Rudy," I sigh. "I hope she won't be all that behind when she gets back."

"She won't be," Akilah quickly says. "There isn't much homework, anyway. Just a study guide for a test."

Brody scoffs quietly. " _Yeah. Just a 'test'."_

"It's an easy test that she won't have any trouble with," Elysse mutters. "She might not even get to do it . . ."

Winsome plays with his food glumly, even a bit irritatingly. "Oh, she'll _definitely_ do it. She recovers fast. A good kid, she is."

I stare at him, puzzled. Everybody sounds so distant, like they're moments away from descending into the sky. "Yes," I say slowly. "She is." I look back down at my food, and everybody but Faith seems to stay as still as me.

"And she's a smart one, too," Faith adds. She sighs to herself, cutting more steak and poking the red meat with the end of her knife. "I just hope she wakes up from her coma soon."

 _Clang_! My fork slips from my hand, slamming into the edge of my plate. Her words ring into my head. _Coma._ I stare at my plate, frozen with wide eyes and cold, trembling fingers. _Coma._

Comatose. Rudy is in comatose.

I feel the room suddenly close in on me, its walls wrapping around my body and suffocating my words. It's as if _I_ am dropping into a coma myself. Reality is gripping to me on one wrist and the horrors of my mind is are trying to pull me from it. _Rudy is in comatose. Comatose._ That sick, nauseous feeling in my stomach launches back, more stronger than before. It blinds me.

"Ormad?" Faith pats me on the arm. "Are you alright?"

" _What the fuck,_ " I whisper. " _Rudy is . . ._ " I roll my eyes up to the faces surrounding me, feeling their guilt seep into me. " _She's . . ._ "

Winsome blows a nervous raspberry. "Nah, she isn't! She's just not in that good of a state, that's all!"

"Don't lie to him, Winsome," Faith replies sternly. "Did nobody tell him about this?"

Jess and Akilah give each other an anxious glance, and Elysse simply looks down into her lap, disappearing from the suddenly frantic conversation. I hear Brody mumble something bitter underneath his breath.

"No," Winsome answers. His joyous tone shakes, spinning like a carousel. "I think we just forgot to, seńorita! I don't think it's-"

"You fucking lied to me," I snap.

"Ormad, I think you're just a bit shocked from-"

" _You fucking lied to me._ " I feel my teeth grind together, my thoughts clouding into a storm. "What now, hm? You told the kids to lie, too? Is that what you did?"

Winsome stays silent, pursing his lips and gulping. The welcoming aura no longer floats around the table, for the tension in the air has torn it apart. I can feel my anger beginning to burn and dance inside my chest as I seethe. Nobody should lie to me. Especially when the lie is about _Rudy._

"Well . . ." The clown bites his lip. ". . . we didn't want to make you upset."

"What the hell do you mean?"

"You're underneath tons of stress, Ormad, I- we don't want to break you or anything-"

"By _lying_ to me?" My knuckles crack as I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Faith puts a gentle hand on my wrist. "I don't want you all to get into a fight. Especially in _my_ house." She squeezes my wrist, warmth seeping into me and fueling my rage. _Let go of me, Faith. Let go._ "Winsome, why did you tell the kids to lie to Ormad about this?"

"I already said, seńorita, I- we don't want Ormad to be even more stressed out than he already is, I-"

"I said I know how to control myself, _Winsome,_ " I snap. _Comatose. Comatose. Comatose._

Winsome cringes, furrowing his brow. "I know, Ormad. But-"

"Why the _hell_ would you even come up with that, huh? I'm not _crazy_!"

"I know, but-"

"I just want to know about Rudy, why won't you let me see her?"

"I-"

"Why would you come up with that?!"

" _It wasn't him_."

The voice pops out of nowhere, my attention wavering. The voice is gritty, young and tough. I turn my head, and right down the center, across from me, is Brody. He plays with his food as if all of this means nothing, sighing.

"What?" I snap.

"It wasn't him who came up with it," Brody repeats, rolling his eyes. "It was me."

I swear I can feel a vein beginning to pulse in my neck, my throat becoming dry and sore. My scars tingle, running up my arms and legs. There's one that beats right in the center of my chest. Blood begins to pound in my ears, my temper struggling to stay intact as the children around me watch intently. _I hate going through this shit._

Faith frowns. "Brody?"

"I'm the one who made up the lie. Can we go back to eating now?" Brody huffs. "I'm tired."

Jess begins to fidget, rubbing his thumb up and down his fork. "Yeah, l-let's just go back to eating . . ."

"Ormad, he's just a kid, let's leave him alone-" Winsome begins.

"And so what if he's a kid?" I snarl coldly. "There's no reason to excuse him because he's a kid. Because the little _shit_ doesn't seem to care at all of what's going on, anyway."

"Ormad!" Faith hisses.

Brody scoffs. "Look, I'm just a bit upset because all you do is talk about Rudy. All the time, everyday. It's like the rest of us don't even exist."

"What the hell do you mean?" I shoot back. "She got _stabbed_. How am I not supposed to talk about her? I love her!"

"Yeah, yeah, we get it," Brody sneers. "You love Rudy. You _always_ love Rudy, and you don't love anybody else. She can do something so small and so little and you'd still applaud her even when she did basically nothing."

My teeth gnash together, tongue becoming bitter and hot. What a fucking _brat._ I'm going to lose myself. "I _do_ love her," I retort. "And I appreciate what she does. But I don't ignore anybody."

"Yes you do!" Brody throws his fork onto his plate in anger with a _clink!_ Everybody around us flinches from the sound. "You _always_ ignore everybody else! Rudy's the only one who's really important to you and you just freak out when she only gets a little bit hurt! But what about me? Wh- What about Elysse and her new family, huh? And what about me? And Akilah, and-"

"I don't ignore any of you! I love you all!"

" _Enough_!" Faith suddenly shouts. "Enough! No more arguing about this. Both of you zip your mouths shut!"

I silently fume and clench my jaw so tightly that I feel like my teeth are about to snap to bits. If not for Faith and everybody else here, I would be breaking everything in my sight. Anything that could make a loud, crunching sound that reminds me of my own skin and spine.

Brody lets out a loud huff, and Faith gently pats my leg again in a maternal fashion. Slowly, I look around at the rest of the children's faces. They all have wide eyes and scrunched shoulders, most of them looking away or directly at me. I have lost most of my composure to barely even care. Then I inhale deeply and exhale the same way. I don't want to be here anymore.

"You shouldn't be bashing him for that, Brody," Faith scolds. "Don't say anything like that to him ever again."

Brody rolls his eyes, shoving his chin onto his fist. "Pshht. I wouldn't be saying anything if he weren't so _obsessed_ with Rudy."

 _Thud_! My bony fists drop onto the table, angry veins running through my fingers and wrists. I veer up from my seat with clenched teeth and wide, raging eyes, directly into Brody's pale face.

"Obsessed?!" I repeat. " _Obsessed_?! What do you mean by _obsessed_?! My daughter got stabbed! She could have died! _She could have died_! I'm not overreacting because I'm her _father_! I love her!"

"Ormad, sit down-" Faith interrupts.

"You're a little shit, you know that?" I bark at Brody, glaring directly into his fearful blue eyes. "It's almost like you're not even human! All of a sudden you think you can snap in my face and say that I'm giving more attention to Rudy than everybody else? _Of course I am_! She's in the hospital! The fucking hospital! And now she's in a coma because you lied to me!"

My fingers crumple the thin napkins on the table, wrinkling them into horrific mutations of paper. "All you want is attention. _All_ you want is attention! You just want to wait until something bad happens, don't you? And then afterwards you'll burst in and complain about all of it! Why? Is it because you can't be the one? Is it because you can't be in the hospital for people to mourn for you? Do you want to be stabbed? Do you want to be in a coma and never wake up? I can't tell sometimes because of that _stupid_ expression on your face!

"What do you want from me? Do- Do you want me to serve you? Do you want me to worship your feet? You're so- You're so damn _selfish_!"

The rumbling intensity of my voice raises to a scream, waves of exasperated volume launching to the boy at the other end of the table. He gawks at me, his face having turned a skull-white and his throat bobbing while he flinches and winces from my sharp words. But it is merely impossible for me to notice, for I have fully snapped.

"I'm sure you sometimes wish Rudy wasn't my daughter," I hiss. "And I know you definitely wish that you have never met me because all I ever do is _talk_ about her. And you know what? Sometimes _I_ wish that you never became her friend." I slam the table again. "You think you're so _royal._ But you can barely do anything that everybody wants you to do. Why can't you greet people kindly? Why can't you mind your own business? Maybe if you could just bring yourself to do anything else except _complaining,_ I wouldn't be so disappointed in you!"

My voice crackles like flaming fire, burning wood until it's all charred and rotted. Blood is pumping in my ears like a raging chant. Everybody around me is staring, Brody's eyes widened to the size of saucers and his face a ghostly color.

But there isn't any guilt in my gut yet. The kid _deserves_ those words. I don't take anything back from it. He's the one who irked me in the first place, anyway.

"I'm leaving," I suddenly announce through clenched teeth.

Faith, breathless, shakes her head and tries to reach out and touch me. "No, Ormad, wait-"

I sharply glare at her, and she freezes. Then she flinches and lowers her hand, slowly nodding with a script of concern written across her face.

I storm out of the room and out of the house, slamming the door shut behind me as the cold air greets my flaming hot temper. The brief image of Rudy bleeding on the kitchen floor erases from my mind, only to be replaced with her lying unconscious on the hospital bed, her eyes closed in a hauntingly angelic way.

She's never waking up.


	7. Chapter 7

7

 _The days pass._ I stay in my room most of the time. The anger from the dinner night has left me, only having my focus stay put on the self-hatred I hold inside. I no longer mourn for myself, how miserable and pathetic I must be for not being included with everybody else. Instead, I mourn for Rudy, for the power known as _comatose_ has snatched her into its gnarly hands.

Thinking of the word "coma" leaves a sour taste in my mouth. Simply thinking of _Rudy_ gives me a headache. But, like Brody said, she's all that I can think about. She's all I can talk about. Somehow, I feel as if the young teenager is right about me. My consciousness and doubt, however, refuse to believe it.

Whatever the case is, I know that I cannot face Rudy. Not when I know that she may never wake up ever again.

I lay curled up in my bed, my eyes fluttering like the weak wings of a butterfly. I haven't slept since that night at the Denbraks, and I badly want to. But I know that my nightmares will haunt me once more, and I will wake up in a cold sweat, worse than ever before. Besides, _trying_ to sleep is already disturbing on its own, for it reminds me of being in _comatose._ Just like Rudy.

There are trails of tear marks against my face, causing the pillow to be damp. They're from yesterday. My hands are brittle as they wrap around my blanket, the feeling of something soft keeping me from diving into despair. It's so delicate. So calming. It doesn't distract me completely, unfortunately. A suicidal cloud looms above my head, dragging me down. It's so easy yet to hard to try and get up, and it's because I _can_ get up, but I just don't want to.

Perhaps this is how Rudy feels right now, locked down in the hospital. The only difference is that she doesn't _know_ she can't get up on her own. I'm sure that I was the last face she saw before passing out. Thinking about it gives me a surge of guilt.

Exhausted, I sit up against the bed's frame, tugging a bit at the roots of my hair. There isn't anything I want to do besides stay in the house and sulk like the miserable man I am. I don't even want to be here anymore. That voice inside of me hisses, _Coward. You can't even see your own daughter._ And that voice is right, because I'm too afraid to even step outside.

I groan to myself. What the hell is wrong with me?

My feet weakly settle onto the floor, and I force myself to stand up. My knees nearly buckle. _As expected._ I feel like a walking corpse as I drag my numb body over to the bathroom, tiredly sauntering inside and facing the cursed mirror. And to my surprise, I look even worse than before.

The dark circles around my eyes look like raw bruises, and my eyelids are droopy and heavy. My eyes themselves have red veins striking through them from my deprive of sleep. My hair is like a small nest of black twigs and leaves. I feel like I'm dead. _It's all I've ever wanted, anyway._

Why don't I want to shapeshift out of this form? It's irritating. I hate pretending to be a human when I'm nothing _near_ one. I will never be a human. I will never fit in with the people around me. No matter how much attention I want or how much I want for _someone_ to just notice how I'm feeling, they just won't get it. Nobody will.

Except Rudy. But she's practically gone now.

I stare at the bandage around my neck. It's soaked with black blood. I slowly take off my jacket, the one that I've kept on since that one night. My arms are coiled with gauze, poisonous snakes wrapping around me. I can barely move without feeling stiff and trapped in my own little prison. I feel miserable. I feel gross and absolutely sick. _Dirty. Vile. Disgusting._

No wonder why nobody wants to be around me.

Morose with fatigue, I decide that it's best for me to at least do something. Change my bandages. That would, hopefully, make me feel better.

Minutes later, the sticky bandages have peeled from my skin, caked with oily blood and piled all over the kitchen table. They sit right next to Rudy's damn hoodie, which is still hanging over the back of one of the chairs. I stare at it for only a moment before tugging my focus back onto my wounds, then the roll of gauze next to me. I don't know if I even want to take care of myself. I'd rather have someone else do it for me. It doesn't even feel the same when I do it, because I know that nobody cares enough to come and visit.

Slowly and reluctantly, I wrap my wounds, loosely at first before giving each wrap a rough tug. It gives pressure onto my arms, adding just a little bit of soreness and smarting the injuries that are already there. Again and again the gauze twirls until my skin is covered with pasty white cloth.

For the one on my neck, I look into the shiny kitchen counter and spot it in my reflection. It's ugly. Torn and slashed. I wrap gauze around it tightly, making sharp tugs to feel the pressure in my throat, that feeling of suffocation at least giving me a bit of relief. All of this pain comforts me when Rudy isn't here, and that's simply because I wouldn't be able to handle seeing her sleeping peacefully on her bed.

How many times have I said that I miss her? I'm growing tired just hearing myself whine about it. Maybe I should mourn over her damn hoodie instead.

I slide down from the kitchen chair and move to the living room, aiming to at least lie down again in peace. But the moment I flop down on the couch, I hear a terrible, irritating _knock, knock, knock._ I groan in frustration and bury my face into the nearest pillow, nails scraping against my skull.

"Go away," I grumble to myself, my head beginning to thump and my scars starting to tingle.

 _Knock, knock, knock_! the door yells at me again, the migraine in my head storming in a chaotic cycle. I feel my nails digging into my skin, my teeth clenching. I just want to be alone.

 _Knock, knock, knock_! I can feel myself crumbling, and my entire body is on fire. "I said go away!" I roar. It's impossible to tell if I'm talking to the person outside or to the voices inside my head.

Whether they heard me or not, the knocking stops. I huff out an irritated sigh. What _bastard_ wants to disturb a man like me?

I run my hands through my hair, tugging at the roots again. I'm almost try and actually tug a strand out when I hear a loud _thump_ from outside. I veer up from where I'm laying. Slowly, I guide myself to the door, peeking through the curtains to see if anybody is there. _Nobody._

Reluctantly, I open the door. My eyes dart around. _Is this some kind of trick?_ Then I realize what is resting at my feet. It's a small cardboard box. I look at my surroundings again. There isn't anybody I can see, nor anything unfamiliar that I can sense. "Hello?" I call, coughing a bit from my raspy voice. "Anybody there?"

Nobody responds.

I bend down and pick up the box. Then I slowly back away, drawing into the safety of the house once more.

The box feels oddly warm as I sit on the couch, placing it on my lap gently. There are no proper labels attached to it. But there is a sticker that hangs on top, reading, FROM: BRODY RIGGS. TO: ORMAD MANNIGLOOM.

I scoff out aloud. What is this? Some sort of _apology?_ That little shit would be the last person to say sorry to me in a genuine manner. I drag a finger across the base of the box, reading those words again. FROM: BRODY RIGGS. Goddamn. I can't understand how that could possibly be real.

With a _crack,_ a black claw pops out of my human disguise, and I tear the box open, tracing each crease inside of it until it blooms open like a flower. I expect to see a pathetic little note with pathetic little handwriting, one that belongs to a feisty teen who can't control his selfish words. That would make sense, anyway. Brody's got a dirty mouth.

What I find instead is something fluffy. Something _dark_ and covered with cloth. My lips curl into a confused frown as I narrow my eyes at it, trying to see what it is, but it's impossible to really tell inside the box. So I take it out.

It's a . . . bird. Or at least a plush of one. It has dark feathers and a large beak, holding wide purple eyes and large wings that are tucked against its body. My suddenly tense grip turns into something gentle and delicate. There is a torn seam around its neck, cotton puffing out of it. My confusion increases until I realize that _I'm_ the one who caused that tear with my claw. The fact that it's near the neck makes me . . . uneasy.

As I _did_ expect, there is a note at the very bottom. I pick it up. And as I thought it would, it has messy, untidy handwriting, one that belongs to none other than Brody Riggs. I try to cling onto the anger from before, but as I begin to read, it slowly slips from my weak, haggard grasp.

Hi Ormad.

This is Brody. I'm sorry for what I said. I just got really angry and I guess I just shouted all of that out. But I didn't mean any of it. I still think you should think a bit of what I've said, though. I really feel like you should. No offense. I miss having you talk to me.

Anyway, here's something Rudy and I were working on together for you. It's a crow. Or a raven, I don't know. Something. It was supposed to have a top hat and a bowtie, but Rudy . . . you know. I didn't want to finish it without her because it felt wrong. So I decided to give it to you. I hope it makes you feel better. I think Rudy named it Mr. Gloom or something. I don't know where that came from.

I'm still sorry for what I said. I don't really want you to forgive me, but I'm still sorry. But can you please spend more time with me? I want to talk to you some more. I want a good dad. Please?

Love,

Brody

I read the last words over and over again. _I want a good dad. Please?_ Then again. _A good dad._ And again. _Good dad._ My thumbs caress the fluffy texture of the stuffed animal. Its bulging purple eyes stare back at me as if it is expecting me to tend to it. Cotton lightly falls out of it and onto my knee.

So someone has finally admitted that I am not a good enough father. Not to Rudy, but to all the other children around her. Her friends. All the attention is always directed to her, Brody says. Nobody else.

But is it something that I should really be ashamed of? She's my daughter. My own _child._ Everybody else has their own families to care for them. I can't just go around saying "I love you" to all of them all the time, because they already know deep down that I care for them.

Then again, I haven't been paying much attention to the other kids and their well-beings at all, have I?

The tear in the bird's neck seems to be gaping. I pick a bit of cotton from inside. It's rough and dusty from having been worked on for quite a long time. It feels ancient, like an artifact that I should be leaving alone. But I can't leave it alone. Rudy - and Brody - made it for me.

I stand up with the bird in my arms, walking into the hallway and into my own bedroom again. Only this time I don't stop and lay down. I go to one of the drawers and pick out a needle and string, and despite the sharpness of the needle tempting me to do great harm, I take a deep breath and tell myself that I don't need to do it. I need to be a good father.

So instead, I sew the torn seam across the bird's neck, my moves delicate and gentle like they should be.

The bird sits at the corner of the couch, unmoving and completely still. Rudy's hoodie is draped next to it. Whenever I glance at the two items, a warm feeling spreads throughout my stomach. A good one. They almost seem to correspond with each other, the bird with purples and blacks and the hoodie with light greys and pinks. It reminds me of Rudy and myself. The ache in my head returns.

So that's why I'm attempting to dull it out. I pop open the lid of the bottle and take a long, satisfying sip from it. I'm not planning to get as drunk as I was a few days ago, but I'd at least like to get a little bit tipsy. It makes me feel better, anyway.

My tongue is overcome with bitterness as I let the bottle clink back down onto the kitchen table. My eyes roll around the room, searching for objects that could potentially soothe me. Then I spot one. A fork. I take it immediately, snatching it. I press the prongs against my fingers, feeling the pressure weigh down on my skin. I press harder. It's like my nails are about to snap right off.

I pull the fork away, staring at the little marks its metal teeth left behind. The movements go from my fingers to my entire hand. Dotting, dotting, dotting. It's like I'm decorating myself, making a display to marvel at. Dull dots are on my palms and knuckles, and everything's starting to grow numb. Then I move onto the other hand. I'm not hurting myself. It does not count. It's simply making myself feel better. _I'm_ getting better. This is self care, right? _Right?_ It must be. I am a good father. I am a good father.

Another sip. I don't feel too drunk yet. My focus is slipping slightly, my hands no longer tense as the ache dulls from my head. I'm getting better. This is self care. I am a _great_ father. I start to dot my wrists, pushing the prongs along the veins that pop out from them. What's the big deal? What am I thinking about, again? Sleep. Warmth. Touch. That little bird. I want them all.

Another sip. I count the seconds this time, looking up at the ceiling. _One, two, three._ It's not too bad. I'm not too bad. I'm not a bad father at all. I'm an _amazing_ father. Look at what I'm doing to myself. It's what I deserve. The prongs dot into me over and over again. This is self care? _This is self care?_ God, how disgusting and bitter I suddenly feel!

No wonder why Rudy isn't here with me! What would she say? She'd scold me and say, "I thought we agreed that you wouldn't be drinking anymore." And I'd respond with, "But it's what I need. It's saving myself from the monster in my head. You should lock me up, Ratgirl, and you can keep the key. It'll be a sweet little souvenir. And when I finally get better, when I finally become the father you need, you can take me back out!"

She'll take care of me. And she wouldn't get hurt at all. The poor little child. When will she get the father she wants? Ah, but it'll take time. We both need patience. I will heal someday. I will heal _eventually._

My arms are filled with little dents and dots. I take another sip of the bottle. I'm already around halfway done with it since I'm drinking much slower than before. I feel proud. No, I feel _pathetic._ But is this the right thing? _Is it?_ No, it's nothing close to it. _But Rudy isn't here to tell you what's right and what's wrong, anyway . . ._

Through my muddy ears, I hear a _knock._ Twice. It would've struck a pang of annoyance in me if I weren't so inebriated. Swaying a bit, my shoulders heavy, I sit up from one of the kitchen chairs and trudge to the front door. Without even looking to see who it is, I immediately open up the door, my dotted hands gripping at the doorway.

It's Faith. _Sweet, hopeful Faith._ I manage a weak, wavering smile. "Hi, Faith," I croak.

She almost looks shocked. Or is she astonished? Is there a difference? With the mixed up thoughts in my cloudy head, it's merely impossible to tell. Her chocolate eyes swarm with something of concern, and I don't really know why.

"You're drunk," she says aloud blankly.

"Yes," I confirm. "But . . . not as much as last time."

"You still look terrible."

I wearily blink, barely bringing up my head to look at her. "I always do."

Faith lets out a sigh, looking around. She puts a gentle hand on my chest, her other on my shoulder. "Dangit, Ormad," she mutters as she pushes me back into the house.

As the door closes with a _click!_ I let her guide me to the couch, in which she forces me to sit down. I watch her stride around the kitchen counter. Her eyes narrow at the lonely fork, completely ignoring the bottle of alcohol standing right next to it. I feel the smile slowly wipe from my face, odium suddenly spreading into my throat and chest. Why isn't she happy? I'm doing better than I was last time. I'm not directly hurting myself. Can someone _acknowledge_ me for once? Face-to-face? _Genuinely?_

I mumble little words that even I can't comprehend, thinking about the art on my arms and the my bitter tongue. I poke the dots on my hands and arms with my nails, claws slowly sprouting out to replace them. Soon, my human form begins to shrivel away like ash, revealing who I truly am underneath. But I don't feel ashamed of it because I can't think clearly, and because I can't think clearly, I don't care.

"This is just your first bottle, right?" Faith asks me.

"Of course," I reply hoarsely. "I haven't even finished it."

I hear her sigh as she strides in front of me, staring into my twitchy purple eyes. Her brow furrows and her lips tighten. I pull my sleeves up, wanting her to stare at what I've done to myself.

She notices, and her lips curl into a frown. "Did you hurt yourself again? Let me see-"

"I didn't hurt myself," I calmly tell her. "I just made myself feel better."

Her warm hands turn my arms back and forth, rotating them to look at the small dents. Some of them are beginning to fade away, unfortunately. Faith gazes back to the fork on the kitchen counter, then back at me. Her eyes are strangely shiny as she gulps a lump down her throat. Gently, she rubs my shoulder, whispering, "Stay here. I'll be right back."

I watch her figure shrink and grow again as she returns with a blanket. I recognize it; it's from my very own bed. Faith wraps it around me like I'm a coddled child, pushing my face into the soft cloth. My vision becomes a bit blurry upon the sudden movement, but I don't fight back, for I don't have the strength to. Where's the bottle? I should have another sip or two. The ache in my head is still very much there . . .

Faith sits next to me, her shoulder nudging against me. Silence coils around her. I pull my arm from the protection of the blanket, heaviness beginning to drag down on it. "Look at what I've done," I say drowsily. "I'm taking care of myself."

"You are _not,_ " she snaps like a whip. "You're drunk, Ormad, and you're almost hurting yourself. That fork could've cut you open if you went any longer with it."

"But it's not as bad as before."

She huffs out a sigh, crossing an arm and massaging one of her temples. "Ormad, why do you have to worry me so much? And _why_ do you have alcohol with you? I thought you said that you stopped drinking some time ago."

I mutter more incomprehensible words underneath my breath. "It's tempting. And she's not here to stop me."

"Oh god, Ormad, stop having the excuses be on Rudy!" Faith exclaims. "She never caused anything! And you can take care of yourself without her!"

I flinch from the sharpness of her tone, curling up into the blanket. My arm sticks out limply. The dots are still there - dull but noticeable. Faith's eyes are like chunks of burning coal. I have never seen her so suddenly irritated before.

Slowly, I turn my head away, staring at the ground and searching for more objects that could potentially be sharp enough to leave an impact. There is none. "She helps me focus," I mumble. "I miss her."

Faith's gaze softens a little bit in my muddy eyes, but she doesn't apologize, nor does she continue to lash out. Instead, she takes my hand and pushes it back into the safety of the warm blanket. "I'll get you some water," she mutters, standing up once more.

I feel my eyes flutter, my body begging to shut down and sleep. But I won't allow myself to. The urge to drink, drink, _drink_ more alcohol comes crawling into my gut, for just a few sips isn't enough. I don't care how toxic it is or how much it could hurt me tomorrow. I want it _now._

But Faith comes back with a cup of water instead. She sits close to me, raising the cup to my lips and having a hand gently pushed against the back of my head, tilting my chin upwards. Left with no other choice, I drink it, even if it's not the bitter-tasting, poisonous fluid that I want.

We sit in silence for the next few minutes. The warmth of Faith's arm next to me brushes against my shoulder, ticking like a clock inside my head. How it drives me _insane._ I want that warmth to drown me and wrap me all up until I can't even breathe. I _need_ that warmth. I _need_ the feeling of someone noticing me, touching me, _loving_ me. But Faith won't hold my hand and caress my face because she already has someone else.

She looks like someone I've fallen in love with before. Someone nobody else knows about. Her eyes remind me of his; her hair is puffy and black, just like his. Suddenly, her eyes seem to fade to gold and her features seemingly shift, and her voice becomes low and smooth. "When am I going to see you again?" my lover says.

Then I blink, shaking my head of the hallucination. No. That isn't _**him**_. That is Faith. What I thought was someone who I loved so dearly in the past is just a recurring friend. I'm going crazy.

"Ormad?" Faith asks.

I dart my gaze at her, eyelids fluttering. "Hm?"

"Did you hear me? When are you going to see her again?"

Of course, the word _him_ differs from _her. Him_ means someone else, a handsome, lovely man that I have held on to so dearly in the past. He's far gone. _Her_ means Rudy, my child, my daughter, my little girl. Nobody talks about either of them when _I_ want to. So what's the point of talking about them now when there's only concern?

When I don't answer, Faith's expression softens, melting like caramel. _He_ liked caramel. Why can't he be here with me? I'd feel much better. Then Faith wouldn't have to waste her time sitting next to such a miserable pile of garbage.

"You should see her," Faith insists. "She'd want to see you."

"No, she wouldn't."

"What do you mean?"

"She hates me. She's . . . She has always hated me."

"Oh, no she doesn't." Faith shakes her head, forcing a smile on her face. It wavers greatly. "Rudy loves you. She wants to be just like you."

I groan, tilting my head upwards. " _Why_?"

"Because you care for her," Faith answers. "And she cares for you."

"She just puts up with me," I mutter. "I'm irritating to her." The dots on my hands can barely be seen now, almost like phantoms on my grey skin. I begin poking them again with my claw. "She's only a kid, she- she doesn't want to deal with _me._ Goddamnit, she doesn't want me to be her 'father.'"

Faith shakes her head again. "That's not true-"

" _Look_ at me, Faith!" I snap. I feel my teeth click together, razors scraping against each other. "Look at me! Do you _think_ Rudy genuinely wants to deal with a drunkard? A lunatic? A-" My voice shakes on the last word. "A _monster_?"

"You're . . . not a monster, Ormad," Faith tells me, frowning.

"Don't lie to me like that," I hiss through clenched teeth. "I _am_ one, whether you believe in it or not. I'm a Negative. The _Boogeyman_ of all things! Do you know how many people I have hurt over the years? Do you know how much I have hurt _myself_ over the years? God, Faith, you don't know!"

"I _do_ know, Ormad."

"You don't understand!" I cry out, tugging at my hair. My stomach churns in a sickly storm. Give me back that bottle. I need it. "What if I hurt her? I'm such an emotional _wreck._ I-" My breath shakes. I need that fork again. I'll stab myself this time. I promise, I promise, I promise. "-I don't know what I could do to her."

Faith puts her hand on my own. Like everybody else's, her hand is warm. Soft. _Gentle_ and _human._ Always different from mine. "You won't do anything to her, Ormad. You love her, don't you? You can't hurt her in any way."

I feel myself shrink into my shell, closer and closer until I'm nothing but a part of the void. Faith is wrong. I _can_ hurt Rudy. I can because I'm out of control, a dark speck of all negativity and chaos. What ways could I do it? Kill her slowly, the power of my own depression and mourning tearing her mind apart? Let her slip out of my grip again? Become blinded by my desperation and greed for _attention_ and let her go into this cruel world?

Why? Why do I think of such things?

"I can," I whisper shakily. "I _can_ hurt her." My claws begin to scratch my palms, back and forth and causing my skin to tingle. "I am a monster. She- Sh-She's just-" I swallow a lump down my throat. I suddenly begin to regret having a few gulps of alcohol. It makes me so vulnerable. "She's just a child. M-My child. I can't t-take care of her _forever._ "

As my body begins to burn with old scars, I force my struggling, shaking hands over my mouth to stop me from speaking any longer. I don't want to hear myself anymore. God, how does Rudy put up with my voice? How does she put up with my _words_? I begin to gnaw anxiously on my claws. There's something wrong with me. Please let it be the alcohol. Please don't let it be what's inside my head, these scary, frightening thoughts. What was I even _thinking_ about these past few minutes?

It's about the people I've lost, isn't it? The man I hallucinated onto Faith, how his golden eyes shimmered like the sun. How I just want him again. His warmth, his smile, his love. But nobody has heard of him. I'm far too afraid to express my memories. A fragile glass I am, dark and cold but easy to break on the right angle and right time.

Then there's Rudy. Poor, precious Rudy. My little girl. Ratgirl. I talk about her too much and I think about her too much. I worry about things I don't need to even pay attention to. I protect her when she can fend for herself. Brody was right before; I _am_ obsessed with Rudy. I _am_ obsessed with her because I am terrified of losing her.

I don't want her to end up like the man I loved so long ago, the one that nobody knows about because I only think about him when I'm in the _slightest_ stages of being drunk. Because that was what we did together. We drank. We drank and drank and made little jokes and held hands. But I never showed him who I really was, who the _Boogeyman_ was, because he was too innocent. His eyes were too golden. His smile was too pure. I couldn't ruin it no matter how much I wanted to relieve myself of my anxiety.

I'm selfish. I'm terrible. I'm wicked. I'm nothing close to being a good father.

As I internally writhe and lash out at myself inside my head, Faith stays silent. She's staring at me. I refuse to look back into her eyes, for I don't want to mistake them as beams of gold. She doesn't have those eyes. She has her own. But I can't hold back that urge to look at her again, and my hallucinative instincts tell me that I'm an unstable, broken man.

Slowly, Faith lets out a long sigh, sounding like the winds of change. Then she takes my hand. She runs her fingers gently over my own, staring at the bruises and ghosts of the dots on my knuckles. Then, almost playfully, she taps her nail against my claw. Gently. Motherly. Welcomingly.

"You're right," she tells me quietly. The irritation from before has slipped out completely from her voice, the warmth from a few days ago beginning to seep in again. "You can't take care of her forever. She has to grow up eventually. She's . . . human."

"I'll be left alone again," I mumble. "Nobody will love me."

Faith's expression softens. She runs her thumb into my palm, making little circles with it. The sensation feels soothing, somehow. "What about Winsome? He'll be alive and well with you. He's immortal, like you."

"But he can still die," I insist. The isolation of the future begins to wrap around me, choking me. "He's a demon. He could get exorcised."

"He's lived for tons of years, Ormad. He won't get into any trouble. He's good at getting out of-"

" _He can still die._ " My hand turns to a fist in her gentle grasp. "It's possible that he can die, he- I'll be left alone, I-I-"

"Don't think about the negative things," Faith says quietly. "You can't be thinking of that stuff all the time. That's why you worry so much. That's why you're afraid. You keep expecting the things that might not even happen. You keep expecting the worst."

What else can I think about? I'm negativity itself, the embodiment of literally the worst of the worst. I swallow a lump down my throat, refusing to look back into Faith's eyes. I don't want to see _him_ again.

"It always happens," I murmur. "I always get things taken away from me."

Slowly, Faith takes her hand and tilts my chin towards her. My eyes are beginning to get dewy, the tears building up dangerously. But I won't let them fall. I've cried too many times in just one week.

"Hey." Faith squeezes my hand. "Look at what you have. You haven't lost anything."

"I lost Rudy," I choke.

"No, you didn't. She's still okay. She's still alright. Listen to me."

"I'll lose her soon . . ." I whisper.

"No, you won't. She's a strong girl. Ormad, listen to me. She _will_ make it through. She'll wake up. I promise."

My hand shakes in hers, and my jaw clenches. Would Rudy even want to wake up? Would she want to see the face of her father? A pathetic man who can't even quench his loneliness? I search for the answer in Faith's face, but all I see is a wicked reminder of another person I've loved.

Faith gently caresses my face. The warmth seeps through me. _How familiar this feels._ All my energy leaves me, and I reluctantly lean into her hand, listening to her speak.

"Look at what you have," she cooes. "Look at how far you've come. You have people who love you. And it doesn't matter what will happen to them because they're still with you now. Don't mope about what will happen to them in the future." Both of her hands cup my face. "You're going to be missing them every single day if you keep on sulking."

Faith sits closer to me. "You have so much time to spend with everybody. You have endless chances. You're not like anybody else I've seen. You don't have to make worries for things that may never even happen."

"But they will happen," I weakly protest. "And-"

"I know. Things will happen to the people you love. To all of us. You can't predict _what_ will happen or when it happens. But that doesn't matter. You still have time with everybody around you." She tilts my head towards her as my eyes scroll down to my feet. "Don't waste that time thinking about other things."

The lump forms in my throat again, and as I gulp it down, a glob of a tear rolls down my cheek. My lip begins to quiver, a sob building in my chest. _Don't cry. Don't cry._

Faith gives me a small smile, and as if reading my mind, she whispers, "Hey. It's okay to cry. Let it all out." One of her hands rests on the back of my head, gently pushing my face into her shoulder. That is when I finally break, letting out strained sobs and wetting her shirt with my tears.

Vulnerability. It's one of the many things I've despised about myself, because no matter how cold I want to make myself, I will always be an idiotic _,_ ignorant bastard. A weak man. A pathetic excuse for a father. A pathetic excuse for a _person._ What stupid _creature_ gets love like me? What piece of _garbage_ has friends like me? What _monster_ has family like me? Do I want this? This . . . _love_?

I don't know. I don't even know.

Faith runs her hands through my hair and and shoulders, whispering words of comfort in my ear. "It's okay," she keeps saying over and over again. "Let it all out."

I can barely reply through the hiccups and whimpers that escape me. "I-I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," she solaces. "You did nothing wrong."

But I _did._ I left Rudy there, leaving her unconscious and asleep. What horrors haunt her there in that damn hospital? She'll never wake up.

But . . . I still got to spend time with her. She's still my little girl. My child, my daughter. She still has her warmth and her bold, arching personality implanted into her spine. The resoluteness packed into her attitude is still there. Rudy is still Rudy, no matter how much I whine and say that I miss her.

And it doesn't matter if she doesn't wake up ever again. I'll still be able to visit her whenever I want to. No harm will come to my little girl, even when she won't be able to speak to me. I know for a fact that she still remembers me and everything we've done together. We hold hands in the back of her head, laughing with the most earnest of joy.

She will still be there. She will still be with me. Just in a silent, distant manner. But I will remember her until the universe ends.

The sobs shake me, an ache growing inside my chest. It isn't long before I start to cling to Faith, my arms wrapping around her. Her warmth engulfs me, drowning me. I feel myself go limp. My vision slowly begins to darken, my head growing heavy and a sense of dizziness taking me over. Sleep is taking back control.

I fight it, turning my head weakly to look at Faith one last time. The projection of the man I've loved before appears again, perhaps for the last time.

"You . . . look like . . . Dominic," I mumble.

Faith blinks, giving me a little squeeze. "Hm?"

"Dominic," I repeat tiredly. "You . . . look like him . . ."

"Go to sleep, Ormad," Faith whispers. "You need rest."

I lean my face into her shoulder, letting out a quiet sigh. My eyes finally close, and all the strength in my body vanishes.

" _Thank you,_ " I manage to murmur before I pass out in her arms.


	8. Chapter 8

8

 _What is this feeling?_ My hands are brushed against something soft, yet something so _illusory_ at the same time. It's not real. It's not fake. It's not, it's not, it's not. When I open my eyes, all the weariness from before has evaporated into the air, and instead of being greeted by the gloomy grey ceiling of the living room, I am greeted with a beautiful night sky.

And I recognize someone. Far off in the distance, sitting at the edge of a grassy cliff. Is it her? That small little girl that I love so dearly? She's wearing that old hoodie of hers, and she's kicking her legs back and forth. I feel something run through my heart, my unstable but still beating heart. _It's her. It's her._

Real or not, I force myself to stand up and call her name. "Rudy?"

She turns immediately, just like I expected her to. Her eyes widen, and a grin takes over her round little face. "Dad!" She waves wildly. "Hey!"

An intense rush of warmth and _happiness_ runs through my veins, a wide smile curving my lips. What is this? She's alright! She's completely _okay._ My sweet little girl, my little Ratgirl! Without hesitation, I dash over to her, immediately scooping her into my arms and hugging her tightly. My Rudy. My Ratgirl. My child, my daughter, my everything. She feels so _real._

Rudy giggles a bit, her voice echoing in my head as she wraps her arms around my neck. She looks up at me with curious eyes. "When are you coming to see me?"

"Hm?" I hum.

"You're coming to see me, right?" she asks again. "I want you to! I miss you."

I pause for a moment, smile fading a bit. But my mind whirs like a clock, wanting me to speak like an out-of-control machine. So that's what I do. "Of course," I exclaim, chuckles overriding me. "Of course I will! I promise."

"Why haven't you done it yet, then?" Rudy says.

"I was afraid, Ratgirl. Before. But do not worry now. I feel much better than before." I grin like a joyful child, holding her close. "I feel _wondrous._ " I laugh again, louder this time. What is wrong with me? _Nothing_ is wrong with me, that's it! This isn't a nightmare, this is a _dream._ An amazing dream that I will keep forever. How happy I feel! How wonderful this is! I giggle again, shoulders shaking. My little girl! My sweet child!

If I'm this happy seeing her in my own dream, then perhaps I will be even _happier_ seeing her in real life, won't I?

"I'm glad," Rudy responds slowly, raising her brows. "Are you okay?"

"Yes!" I reply. "I am _more_ than okay, Rudy! I am overjoyed!" How warm she feels, how real she seems. But she's not the real Rudy. The real Rudy is asleep right now. But she will wake up like I will.

"I guess that's good," Rudy says. She leans against my chest, kicking her legs out. "But you sound like you're scared."

"How?"

"Your voice is all shaky."

I chuckle yet again, the rumble low in my chest. "Because I'm _ecstatic_! I'm going to be visiting you today!"

My child looks to the ground for a moment, a hopeful gleam in her eye. Then she looks back up at me.

"Well, you better be quick. I'm kinda tired of waiting."

The fantasy of a dreamscape is suddenly tugged from me, my eyes shooting open to the grey ceiling of the living room. The rush of excitement dulls for just a moment, being shot down by the nausea from last night. My head is spinning again, aching in the back of my neck. The name _Rudy_ echoes in my skull.

Then I blink. _Her. Rudy._

 _I need to go see her._

I kick the blanket off of my heavy body, rolling my feet onto the floor and forcing myself to stand up. I wobble, dizziness taking over me. But Rudy's name echoes in my head again. I have to go see her. She wants me to show up. My stomach churns in an nauseous wave as I turn, and I take a moment to breathe. This adrenaline pumps through me. It feels so refreshing.

I go to the bathroom and wash the bitter taste from my mouth, ignoring the strong thud beginning to beat in my skull. Then I splash warm water onto my face. It sends a jolt through me. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, scrunching my nose. I look _hideous_. I don't even remember how I originally look like. What father looks like this?

So I change it instead of sulking. After shapeshifting back into my human disguise, I comb back my hair to the best of my abilities, my hands shaking from excitement. Suddenly, I look at my reflection, and I'm _smiling._ Thinking about seeing Rudy after all this time sends butterflies through my aching stomach. I'm finally improving. I'm finally okay. I'm becoming the father that she needs.

Call me dramatic. I barely give a shit! I'm _happy_!

I stride back into the kitchen. I barely remember the silhouette of the bottle I drank from, the fork lined up against it. But I can't pay attention to it now. There's something more important to tend to. Some _one_ more important to tend to. My hands frantically mess with my collar, straightening it. I can barely keep them from jolting back and forth, energy running through them. I suddenly feel like jumping for joy. My feet glide across the house floors and out the door. _Rudy. I'm going to see Rudy._

The wind speeds past my face. My legs wobble just a little as I stride, almost skipping along the sidewalk. But I fight to keep myself together. I don't give a damn of how tired I am or how upset I feel, deep down inside. I had a dream. A _dream._ Something _positive_ in my dark and vile head. How could this be? I was just crying and drinking last night.

I push the thoughts away forcefully. There was no time to think of that now.

My bruised knuckles knock wildly on the front door of the Denbraks. What time is it? The sky is a weak white, a little bit of sun peeking through the misty clouds. I ignore the burn dancing behind my eyes as the door in front of me swings open, and Faith is staring at me with concern in her face.

"Hello, Ormad," she says slowly, a questioning tone in her voice. "Are you feel-"

"Take me to go see Rudy," I interrupt abruptly. "I can't remember which hospital she was taking to, I- I've never been in one before, and I think that it'd be better for you to take me."

Faith frowns, possibly in an inquiring way. She is wearing her pajamas and her hair is a mess. It must be morning, then. She rubs some grime from her eyes, looking behind her and into the house. "Um . . . are you sure you're okay?" she asks. "I don't think you drank very well last night-"

"I feel fine," I reply immediately. "I feel _great._ Please, take me to go see Rudy."

The frown on her face slowly but surely morphs itself into a small, sincere smile. "Alright. Let me get changed. I'll have breakfast at the hospital."

"Okay. Please, hurry. I really need to see her."

"Whatever you say, Ormad," she sighs. "Come on in. Rest before we go. You really need it."

I grin at her, nodding frantically. My hands are shaking. "I know. Please hurry, Faith. I want to meet her now."

Faith snickers to herself, letting me step into the house.

Much time later, I'm looking out the window of Faith's little car. My head pounds with nausea and adrenaline. My fingers nervously tap at edge of my chair. What will I say? What will I do? Should I buy something for her before seeing her or should I see her first? These thoughts swarm endlessly in my head as I start to bite my nails. I'm shaking with happiness yet shaking with anxiety. I've never paid a proper visit to a hospital before, and I've only seen a _little_ bit of one just a few days ago, and then I was forced to leave immediately afterwards.

I look over to Faith, only to find that she is staring back at me with the ghost of a smirk on her face.

"You're definitely feeling better," she says. "I can tell."

A shaky laugh passes my lips. "I suppose." The sour taste returns to my mouth, and I suddenly feel like I'm about to vomit. _Or am I just thinking too much_? I close my eyes, tugging at the roots of my hair. The pressure calms me. _Maybe I was just drinking too much._

With each stoplight that we arrive at, the nausea stops dancing inside my skull, just for a few moments before starting up again. I fight through it. I inhale deeply, closing my eyes. Then I shoot them back open. The sour taste from my mouth is all around me, and I realize that I smell entirely of _alcohol._ I almost gag. I can't enter a hospital like _this._

"Faith?" I ask.

"What is it, Ormad?"

"Do you have-" I clear my dry throat. "-perfume?"

She leans towards me, sniffs, and scrunches her nose. "Oh, you definitely need some. Are you okay with smelling a bit flowery?"

"Will I sneeze a lot?"

"No," Faith answers, chuckling a bit, "because perfume does not have pollen in it." She snatches her purse and sets it in my lap. "It should be in the outside pocket."

I do what she says. I open the outside pocket of her purse. There's a pink bottle of perfume. Looking at it immediately gives me a faint sense of Rudy's favorite color. I spray it over me, my mouth clenching from the strong smell. I hold my breath as I return the bottle to its original place.

"What the hell is this?" I mutter.

"A flowery scent," Faith says. "I haven't used it in some time because I hate the smell." A chortle escapes her lips. "But it's better than nothing, right?"

"I suppose." Despite Faith saying that the perfume is supposed to smell like flowers, the only thing I smell is sparkly, fuzzy, dramatic nothing. But like Faith said, it's better than nothing.

I hope Rudy will point it out. There's nothing I miss more than hearing her jokes.

Before I know it, Faith parks the car in front of the gigantic white building, the nausea in my head and stomach weakening. Everything that happens afterwards is faint, and I barely pay attention to anything. My legs wobble as I step out. Faith wraps her arm around mine to keep me balanced. Each step I take racks my chest, my eyes squeezing shut every now and then. But I force myself to stand on my own, Faith's warmth leaving me. I don't need to lean on anybody right now.

Everything passes quickly, slipping from my muddy memory. One moment we're at a desk, passing white walls with colorful paintings that wrap around my head. Another moment, I have to focus on the eye of a camera, staring straight through it as my body pulses with old scars. Then there's an image of my grave face on a little card pinned to string, lassoed around my neck. _Strangle yourself,_ a voice in my head says. I fight it. _I need to take care of myself._

People pass by, only giving Faith and I the littlest of glances. I wonder if they are visiting loved ones as well. They all have grim expressions, their lips pursed into thin lines. Some of them are smiling. Some are even laughing as they walk side by side. Others are silent, standing still and alone. But I don't sense that much negativity in the air. In fact, there's the opposite: _positivity._ It confuses me. How could someone be possibly happy when they have someone they care so dearly about hurt or in poor conditions? How?

The answer doesn't come to me, even when Faith and I step into an elevator with nobody else beside us. Faith has a card similar to mine. Her face on their seems more old; she got the image from her driver's license. She presses a simple button that rings floor 6, room 8.

As the elevator lifts us up and my stomach churns with nausea once more, Faith gently nudges me in the arm. I look down at her wearily.

"Hey," she says quietly. "Do you remember anything last night?"

A bottle. A fork. Blurry, dull vision. "Not really."

The corners of Faith's mouth tug downwards in a frown. Her eyes glimmer like sparkly black pebbles. "You were talking about someone. Do you remember?"

I furrow my brow. It hurts trying to concentrate. "No," I admit. "Who was I talking about?"

"You compared me to him," she continued slowly. "You said that I looked like him." She pauses, swallowing. "Whoever that was, I don't want to pry further. But are you alright now?"

There isn't anything I can quite see in Faith's face besides kindness and motherly warmth. I recognize nothing else in it. In the back of my head, a distant bell rings, giving me a distant image of two golden eyes. But I shake the thought from me. "I think so," I mutter.

Faith opens her mouth. Then she closes it again. Her eyes dart elsewhere, scrolling around the interior of the elevator. I keep my stare on her, waiting for her to say something else.

"Okay," she sighs. "Tell me if you need anything."

The elevator's doors pull open, leading to another grey and beige tinted hallway. I follow Faith, standing tall until employees come into view, in which my head scrunches down and my eyes trace the floor. I hear them chime a simple, "Hello," to us, a cheery tone to their voices. Faith greets them back as I mumble into my chest. I shouldn't be feeling so odd. But even in a public place that welcomes visitors, I feel out of place.

That's how it will always be with me. But I'll mold myself in eventually.

"Which room is she in again?" I murmur to Faith.

"Eight," she replies patiently. "Right around the corner, over there."

And that's where it is. My pulse quickens as I spot the solidly sculpted number eight sticking against the window of the door's glass. Curtains are covering it, laced with white. I swallow a lump down my throat. _What will I say? What will I do?_ I ask myself afterwards, _What if she isn't even awake?_ Slowly but steadily, doubt begins crawling into my gut once more. I really shouldn't have gotten drunk last night.

Faith gives me a soft smile, patting my wrist. "I hope we don't disturb her if she's sleeping." She pauses before quickly adding, "I don't mean in a coma. It's rather early, anyway. I wouldn't blame her if she's sleeping in."

"She might not even wake up, anyway," I mutter, giving her a dry and anxious laugh.

"Don't think about that," she reassures me. "You'll still be able to see her either way, right?"

My scars tingle all over my arms. _But she won't be able to see me._ "I suppose."

"You'll be okay," Faith says, patting my wrist again. The scars scream on there, too, having only increasing in volume from her warm touch. I don't deserve this. Then a voice in my head snaps, _Stop putting yourself down. Do you want to mope when you're about to see Rudy?_

Faith knocks on the door. _Knock, knock, knock._ Three times, just like every other time. I try to focus on it to relieve me of my anxiety. All the adrenaline from before has seemingly died down, dragging my excitement with it. Now all that's left is my doubt. Again, I have fallen into my old, irritating thoughts. I won't ever escape them.

At first, there is silence. Then with a _click,_ the door's handle twists itself open. There is a woman wearing a loose blue outfit and pants, and a card pins to her chest. With gloved hands, she waves at us, smiling. "Hello!" she greets, a tender and soft tone to her voice. "You are here rather early. I was just giving her some pain-relieving medicine."

Like a balloon, the tension in my chest deflates, causing me to let out a sigh of relief. _She's awake. Rudy's awake._

"Can we come in?" Faith asks.

"Of course," the woman replies. "You're Faith, right? It's nice to see you again." Her eyes trail over to me. "And you are Rudy's father?"

"I-" My breath hitches in my throat. "-yes, I am. I-I'm her father." _I'm a good father. I'm a great father._

"It's nice to meet you." She extends a hand, in which I shake hesitantly before quickly pulling away. I try to peek past her shoulder, only seeing the base of a grey hospital room and a window at the very end. "Rudy has been asking about you. I'm sure that you're happy visiting her."

"Yes, I-I am."

The woman laughs quietly, ringing like chimes of comfort into my ears. "You two can talk all you want. But she is a little bit tired. She just woke from her coma yesterday."

"Oh." Yesterday, when I was drinking and mourning for things I already had. How coincidental. "Is Rudy okay?"

She nods. "She seems happy. I'm sure that means that she's okay." The woman gives me one last smile before moving past Faith and me, waving. "Have a good day."

As her silhouette disappears, Faith closes the door. All is silent. I can barely bring myself to turn around and see my little girl, wherever she is. So instead, I stare into the eyes of the motherly woman in front of me, waiting for her to guide me.

Faith puts a hand on my arm, and my scars begin to tingle again. "Do you two need time alone? I can sit outside and wait."

My jaw clenches. I can hear the little beeps and buzzes of the monitors behind us. They almost seem to reflect my very own pulse. There is nothing I want more than seeing Rudy alone, where we can talk about anything and everything without worrying about the people around us. At the same time, I want Faith to stay; I don't know what to do. I haven't ever visited a loved one in a hospital. I've never _had_ any loved ones in a hospital. Ever.

Still, I don't want anything more than a little talk with my little daughter.

"I suppose," I reply. "I've missed her."

"I know, Ormad," Faith says. "You deserve to see her on your own." She pats my arm gently. "Tell me if you need anything, okay?"

"Okay."

"Have fun," she tells me. Faith lets go of my arm. "Don't worry too much about her." Step by step, I watch her leave, inching towards the door and slipping through it. Then she's gone. My guide. My helper. My supporter. I'm all alone.

I take a deep breath, feeling my hands quiver in their pockets. It's as if I can already _feel_ Rudy's presence in the room. She's there, I know. I shouldn't be standing here, waiting for her to invite me in when she's really the one waiting for me. Step by step. Baby steps. Slowly, I peek around the curtains, and my breath catches in my throat.

There's Rudy. On her bed, with a white gown hanging closely to her and needles sunken into her skin. I wince upon seeing them. A blanket is neatly draped on her, possibly not enough to give her warmth. Machines stand by her side as if they're guarding her, filled with numbers and diagrams that I don't want to read. I only want to look at the patient on the bed. How I wish I could just unfreeze and comfort her. She must be in pain. My little girl, my little daughter, my-

"Hey, Dad."

Her voice startles me. Hoarse, gritty . . . so much unlike her. She sounds sick. She sounds miserable. She sounds _hurt._ But on her face is a gigantic smile, one that rings her familiar aura of love.

I clear my throat, swallowing and forcing a weak smile. "Hi, Rudy." I reluctantly walk closer to her. My eyes search for any blood, any bandage that may be wrapping her wound. But to my relief, there's no hint of it for me to see. "How are you?"

Rudy weakly manages to shrug. Each movement she makes sends an insect of worry into my stomach. "I could be better," she croaks. "But I'm happy."

It's as if a blessing has been laid upon me. A warm feeling puffs up in my chest. The girl's loving and positive aura seeps into my veins. It is like I haven't felt it in _forever._ I recognize her childish face and goofy little smile, how her cropped hair barely touches her shoulders. That's her. That's my daughter.

Suddenly, the warm feeling in my chest bursts open. The corners of my mouth tug into a grateful smile, and without warning, I begin to laugh. My shoulders shake and my hands cover my mouth, something taking over me. It's refreshing. If I could, I'd wrap Rudy into a gigantic hug, cooing to her little words that will tease her and make her giggle. Because all I want is to see her happy. And here she is, smiling as I chuckle loudly and merrily.

"I've missed you," I cry through my gasps and laughs. "I've missed you so much."

"I've missed you, too," Rudy replies, grin widening. Her breathing is raspy, eyelids weak and heavy, almost looking like me. But I _know_ that she is just as glad as me.

Before I know it, I dash to her side and wrap an arm around her head, gently pressing her ear against my cheek. She leans against me. I continue to shake with giggles. The nausea and anxiety from before has completely vanished. I don't need to worry when Rudy is with me. I am here to protect her, and she is here to protect me.

For the umpteenth time, I begin to weep. It would've gotten obnoxious by now, but now, I am not crying because I'm in grief. I am not crying because I am in despair. I am crying because I am _overjoyed._ Laughing, smiling, holding what is most important to me: Rudy.

"I've been waiting for so long," I sob, biting down on my quivering lip. "And- I- I'm so _happy_!" I sniffle, tears dampening Rudy's dark hair. "Goddamnit, I-I'm so fucking happy . . ."

"Me too," Rudy weakly replies, leaning into my shoulder. "I was wondering when you would stop by."

"I'm here now," I whisper. "You don't have to worry about anything at all. You're safe with me."

Somehow, she manages to laugh despite having a sore stomach. "I wasn't really worrying about anything, to be honest," she says. "I _couldn't_ really worry about anything. I was in a coma, remember?"

I pause, gulping a sob. "Y-Yes, Rudy. I'm beyond relieved that you're awake."

She blows a raspberry. "Yeah, yeah. I don't remember anything at all."

We both laugh as I gently stroke her hair. Then I force myself to let go. I back away, dragging a chair across the floor to sit down. As I observe her, I notice that, despite being in one of her weakest states, doesn't seem that tired at all. At least mentally. Perhaps that medicine is dragging her down.

I wipe my face with my sleeves, sniffing and smiling. "Duh-Did you dr-dream about anything?" I ask.

"Nah. You can't dream in comas. At least I don't think so." She shrugs, looking to the side. "It'd be boring to just stay inside your head for a few days without anything to do."

"But y-you could- you could dream something up."

"Maybe," she says, raising her brows. "But I wouldn't know what to dream of." She hums for a moment before looking at me. Her eyes gleam. "Maybe I'll dream of you."

"A memory," I suggest to this fantasizing idea. I begin to fiddle with my thumbs in my lap. "A-A f-few memories. What would you have thought of?"

Rudy shrugs again. Her eyes fly to the ceiling as if she's imagining the dream world right now. I follow her. Perhaps she's counting imaginary sheep.

"Eh. I dunno. There's tons of things that we've done together that's fun. I couldn't have played all of them at the same time."

"Then you could go through them one by one," I tell her. "It would be a steady process. O-One event after another."

"Chronologically?"

"Yes, ch-ch-chronologically," I stutter. "It'd warm your heart."

"Like an oven."

The sudden comparison throws me off, and I laugh suddenly. "An oven?"

Rudy beams. "Yeah. An oven. Ovens heat things up, right?"

"Perhaps phy-physically, but I wouldn't want to warm up someone's actual heart. Th-That'd be ridiculous." Oh, how I love her silly, nonsensical humor. It, ironically, warms up my heart.

Rudy hums again, her small fingers slowly tapping the edge of her bed. "Then what could we warm up? Something to eat?"

"Well, I ate over at Jess' house last week," I say. "They warmed up some food in the oven."

A sparkle dances in her eye. "You ate over at Jess' house? With his _mom_ cooking everything? Aw man. I wish I could've been there."

"Ah, I'm sure his mother can cook something up for you when you get out," I encourage. My smile widens from ear to ear, the bell of warmth ringing in my chest. "She says you're a good kid."

"Fuck yeah I am."

"Swearing? Hmph. I don't approve of that."

Rudy giggles hoarsely. "Hey, I got stabbed. I should be allowed to say _something._ "

"Good job," I compliment her, and we laugh yet again.

Hours pass. I stay in the hospital with Rudy. Sometimes I go to walk with Faith in the halls, chatting cheerily together. It all feels so refreshing. I barely feel the sour taste in my mouth, for it seems to have ran away from my tongue. Now I stand tall with a straight back and high chin. I want people to know that I am not even _close_ to being ashamed to seeing my lovely little girl again.

But there isn't really anybody to judge me, anyway. Everybody keeps their distance. They don't notice me, but that's because they're not supposed to. I don't know the employees and they don't know me. At least they greet Faith and I every now and then.

Lunch comes quicker than expected. Faith attempts to invite me to join her, but I politely decline. "I want to get something for Rudy," I say. "Isn't there a gift shop on the bottom floor?"

She gawks at me, most likely because she didn't expect me to recover so quickly. But she picks herself back up, nodding. "Yes. That's mostly filled with toys and things for younger children, though. I don't think Rudy would like anything there."

"Hm."

"You could get her a balloon," Faith suggests. "Even something as simple as that can make her feel better." She pauses before smiling. "Or you don't even have to get her a gift. She's already happy enough seeing _you_."

I chuckle. I've been in a giggly manner ever since I saw Rudy. It's easy to tell the reason why. "But I have to get her _something._ " I think about the things she already has at home. Her skateboard, her video games, her consoles . . . she has basically everything that she wants. And she has her favorite hoodie too. Though it is getting rather old.

That is when an idea pops inside my head. An obvious idea, but one that I like nonetheless. "I'll get her a new hoodie," I announce to Faith. "Something different from her usual one but something that applies to her tastes." I can't believe I'm literally wanting to analyze all of this. "Perhaps something fluffy? Something that'll make her extra cozy."

"Oh, you sound silly," Faith chuckles. "Just get her whatever you think suits her best. I'll be in the cafeteria if you need me."

"Alright," I sigh.

"Please don't be gone for so long," she calls as she walks away, and she leaves me at that.

I turn in my visitor's pass to the front desk and walk out. I keep note of where the hospital is. It shouldn't be forgotten that easily since it's one of the largest buildings in this town, anyway.

Through the empty streets, I find a small gift shop filled with items based off our state of Michigan. I enter it, having to duck through the doorway in order not to bump my head. The shopkeeper mutters a greeting to me without looking up from her desk.

I walk through arrangements of small, softly shaped sculptures and colorful chimes made out of glass. I run my hand through the chimes to hear them sing like little artificial birds. Rudy would name the chimes, surely. She'd give them silly names like "Bob" and "Kelly", and I would laugh with her after hearing them said aloud.

I pick up the sweet smells of candles and soap stacked on wooden shelves. One that is colored a light purple takes my attention. It smells of lavender, and I am beyond glad that I do not sneeze because of it.

Then I see what I am looking for. In a section in the back of the store is a set of clothes, mostly filled with hoodies. I feel a smile crawl to my face as I examine each one. I'm sure Rudy would like one that is fuzzy and is bigger than her usual size. I see her curl up in her old hoodie all the time. Like the picky man I am, I go through each one, trying to see which one would fit her tastes the most. I am a good father. I am a good father.

After a few minutes, I settle on one hoodie. It's rounded with pastel blue and pink, soft and fluffy coating on the outside, the words GREAT LAKES SPIRIT patterned in dark text on the front. Size small. And then another minute passes as I walk up to the counter, pulling out some money to pay with.

The shopkeeper tilts her head at me, smirking. "You use perfume?"

"Hm?"

"I like the smell of your perfume," she says, raising her brows. "What kind is it?"

The only thing I remember of Faith's perfume bottle is that it was pink. And from how _I_ smell like, it isn't applicable to my own tests. "Um, well . . ." I shrug, sliding a few dollars across the counter. ". . . it's not mine. It's my friend's."

"Oh."

"It's a flowery scent, she told me."

"Oh. That's nice." The shopkeeper sheds a small smile as she puts the hoodie into a bag, possibly a forced one. "I like it. I hope I can run across it someday." She hands the bag to me. "Thank you. Have a nice day."

I leave, muttering, "It smells disgusting," underneath my breath.

I reenter the hospital, take back my visitor's pass, and travel to the floor of Rudy's room once again, this time on my own. Faith is most likely still eating or taking a break from guiding me. I don't have anybody at my side, but I stand tall. I greet the employees who greet me with my face in full view, my spine straight and my posture confident. There is nothing to be afraid of. Rudy is okay.

When I show her the hoodie in her little room, I do it as suspiciously as possible. I enter, hiding the bag behind my hip in a mysterious way and looking straight at her. "I'm back," I chirp.

Rudy takes the bait. She tilts her head to the side. "What'cha got there?"

"Oh, it's nothing," I sigh. "Just . . . not that important."

She squints at me, and it's merely impossible for me to suppress the cheeky grin on my face. I sigh again, sitting by her side and swinging the bag into my lap. "Fine," I announce. "I bought you something that I know you'll like."

"What is it?"

I unwrap the bag as neatly and proper as possible, teasing her in a way. Then I reveal the fluffy hoodie, holding it up so that it hangs over my head. I proudly exclaim, "Here it is!"

Rudy's eyes light up like fireflies, and even while trapped in her bed, she waves her hand a bit. "It looks so cozy!" she hisses. "Can I feel it?"

"It's yours to keep," I tell her, holding the hoodie for her to touch. A beam of pride - good pride - shines from within me. I've never felt anything like that in a long time.

I watch her as she marvels at the garment, tracing a finger across the words to the best of her abilities. " _Great Lakes Spirit,_ " she reads. "Huh."

"I bought this from a store that was entirely about Michigan," I explain. "I'm sure you would've liked something more independent, but-"

"Hell no. I love this. Thank you, Dad." Rudy hums for a moment, letting go of the hoodie as I place it back in the bag. "It makes me feel something. It makes me feel . . . superior!"

"As in Lake Superior?" I ask.

"I mean, sure. But just superior in general."

"Hmph." I begin to fiddle with my thumbs again, not noticing the boniness or gauntness of my pale, ghostly hands. "Why with this hoodie? I thought your other hoodie was your favorite."

She shrugs. "I like this one better."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Because you're the one who got it for me."

A flurry of warmth tingles in me like a fluttering butterfly, and I feel myself chuckle. "Well," I sigh, "there isn't much else I can do but get gifts and talk to you."

"Yeah. But I like talking to you and getting gifts, anyway." Rudy looks up to the ceiling. "It was boring yesterday. I couldn't do _anything._ What did you do when I was away?"

The smile on my face fades a little as I review my days of dread and loneliness. I still remember the new scars I have given myself, all over my already decorated arms and neck. Fortunately, they have healed up quite a bit, thanks to my uncanny, unnatural abilities. But they're still sore. Thinking about the day Rudy got stabbed causes my stomach to churn and my mouth to turn bitter. But what's the point of worrying about what has already happened when everything has already been solved?

Everything except the one mystery that I still don't know the answer to.

"Oh, Ratgirl," I say. "I felt terrible without you." I rub the nape of my neck, swallowing. "I'll . . . I'll admit. I did lose myself a few times. I got a bit hurt. My apologies for that."

"Did you drink?" she asks with a concerned tone in her voice.

". . . Yes." My eyes travel to the ceiling as Rudy's travel to my face. I can just feel her gaze pressing onto me. "I couldn't think of a good reason to not drink at all. I regret drinking those nights. And I'm sorry for it."

"Well, there isn't anything to be sorry for," Rudy tells me.

"There are plenty things to be sorry for," I respond quietly. "And I can be sorry for that if I want to be."

Rudy's fingers tap on the edge of her bed. "I'm not mad, to be honest. I kinda knew that you were drinking, anyway."

I blink in surprise. "Really? How?" She must have some kind of sixth sense.

But my suspicion of her psychic abilities is immediately shot down. "You smell weird. Like, you would never wear perfume. And the perfume you're wearing right now is definitely not something you chose on your own." She scrunches her stubby nose. "It _sucks_."

The dread in my chest vanishes, and I let out a chuckle that shakes my shoulders. _Everything is alright now,_ I remind myself. _Stop worrying about things that you don't need to worry about._

"Ah, it's Faith's perfume," I answer. Then I quickly add, "Jess' mom's perfume."

"I knew that," Rudy says. "Still, it sucks. Smells really bad."

"Well, it's better than nothing, isn't it?"

Rudy shrugs once more. "I guess so. It's better than the entire hospital."

"Yeah."

We stare at each other as seconds pass. I give her a small smile before looking at the devices beside her. There's a large remote. I trace it to the TV hanging in the top corner of the room. "Do you want to watch a movie, Rudy?"

She shakes her head. "Nah. Maybe later."

I swallow. There's a question that I'm itching to ask, crawling around the insides of my skull. I don't want to ask it, for this peaceful aura soothes me. It's nothing like I have ever felt before with anybody else. Only with Rudy. But still, I need an answer, and there has to be something that we can talk about.

I should really save the question for after she gets out, but . . .

I put my cold hand on hers, a gentle and fatherly manner taking over me. I clear my throat and look into her eyes, keeping myself calm. The smile stays on my face. "Rudy," I begin, "I don't want you to get upset, but-"

"What is it?" she asks, an almost innocent tone to her voice.

"The day you got stabbed," I continue, "investigators looked through the house and didn't find anything. And they couldn't ask you anything, of course, because you weren't awake. So I suppose I'll just ask you a- a question now."

Rudy's hand tenses underneath my own.

"Who hurt you?"

Her jaw clenches for a moment. Then she shrugs. "I dunno," she mumbles, looking to the side. "I couldn't really see anybody. It was really sudden."

I frown. She's a good girl with a good memory. "Are you sure?" I ask, squeezing her hand. "Are you really sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

My frown deepens. The joyous aura in the air suddenly tightens, a bit of negativity rising from her shoulders. Usually, I'd curse myself for having such ancient abilities to sense emotions, but now I realize how much I need it. I know more than everybody else in this building. Especially Rudy and her "sureness."

"You can tell me, Rudy," I assure her. "I won't get angry at whoever did it. Or _kill_ anybody or anything." I do my best to sweeten the mood with a light chuckle, but it only seems to make her more tense.

Rudy sighs. "I . . . I don't think I remember anything."

"Yes, you do," I say before softening my tone. I squeeze her hand again. There isn't anything I fear more than making my little girl uncomfortable. "You don't have to lie. I won't get angry at all." I lean forward, tracing her cheek and pushing a strand of hair from her face. "Please, tell me. I need to know."

"Nah, it's fine."

"I just want to know."

Her hand squeezes into a fist underneath my hand. "What are you going to do to the person who did it?" she asks quietly.

I pause for a moment. My jaw tightens. "Not much," I reply, doing my best to keep my tone honeyed and gentle. "I'll just- I'll just have a little talk with them. I'll make sure they'll get punished, because I won't let anybody like them hurt you again." I huff. "Please. It doesn't matter, because-"

" _Fine_! It was me! I stabbed myself!" she hisses.

That's when I feel my entire body freeze. My hand feels like it's crushing hers. My fingers uncoil from hers as I stare at her in bewilderment. _Did I hear that right_? _Did my little girl just say that_? That sharp, pointed knife plunging into her stomach . . . it was all because of her. _No,_ it was all because of _me._ Because I couldn't watch for signs of her turmoil beforehand.

"What?" I breathe.

Rudy avoids my gaze. "Yeah," she replies. Her words grow quieter as she trails on. "I hurt myself."

 _It's my fault._ My _fault._ Because I'm the one who started hurting myself in the first place. Because I am her father. Because she looked at me and thought that it was an okay thing to do. It _isn't_. A wordless breath passes through my cold lips as I stare, unblinking. My little girl. _Why_?

"What?" I say again. "Why? Your life is _perfect_. Th-There's nothing-"

"There's a ton of reasons for it," she interrupts abruptly before growing quiet again. "I'm pretty sure I deserve it."

My blood begins to boil. How could she think about herself like that?

"Wh . . ." How? Why? The words spin in my head in endless cycles, never stopping and never starting. They are merely echoes of what I've asked myself before when I started to hurt myself. How could I have done this? Why am I doing this? _What am I_? Each sharp object I see today will still give me that same, tense feeling that quakes in my stomach and beats in my head, because sharp objects tingle my skin and play with my old scars. Deep down, I regret ever starting it, because now it has passed onto Rudy.

She swallows, staring elsewhere.

"What do you _mean_? You, I, you can't- you can't possibly think that!" I sputter. "Do you know how much you're _worth_ to me? You're my everything! You're all that I have!"

"But you have everybody else besides me," she says. "You have Brody, and Jess, and Akilah, and-"

"But they aren't you, Rudy!" I reach for her hand. She pulls away just in time. "Goddamnit, you have to know how much I _love_ you!"

"I know you love me," she mutters.

"Then why would you hurt yourself like that?" I exclaim, voice cracking. This is all too much to take in. Too much to endure. _My fault. I am nowhere near a good father._

Rudy takes a deep breath, wincing. She sounds hoarse. If I had been home earlier, she wouldn't be here, trapped in this bed with stitches in her stomach. If I had known better, I would have comforted her dark thoughts - whatever they are - before they took control of her and that knife. If I were _anywhere_ near being as perfect as she is, I wouldn't have to worry about a thing.

I don't care if she doesn't think she's perfect. _I_ think she's perfect. She's everything. My treasure. My daughter. My sweet, precious little girl. I can't imagine losing her. _Ever._

When Rudy speaks again, her voice trails into a soft whimper, like a lost, hurt puppy. "I don't know. I just . . . like . . ." Her head tilts back and forth, her cheek smoothing against both of her shoulders. "I felt like it was right or something."

"How could that be right?" I say, aghast. My own hands begin to shake as a lump builds inside my throat. "I don't want you to get hurt."

Her eyes are growing dewey. She can't bring herself to look at me, the man who inspired her. "But I felt like it was right," she says again. "It . . . It helped me."

"How did that _help_ you? You can't just hurt yourself like that! I _love_ you! I don't want you to kill yourself! I don't want you to die!"

Rudy sniffles. "But I've said before that I-I don't want _you_ to get hurt," she whines. "And you hurt yourself anyway. Why can't I do it, too?"

Before I know it, my protective, fatherly mask breaks, and I hiss at her with shaking fists, "Because you're not supposed to do it! It's not something you deserve!"

"It's not suh-something that you deserve, either," she snivels. "But you still do it."

"What is wrong with you? I- I _do_ deserve it, Rudy." I fight to give her a smile that contains more bitterness than I intend it to. "Do you know what I've done in the past? I've done horrible things. No one is there to punish me, so I have no choice but to punish myself." I have to make her understand.

But she refuses to. "How come you get to say all the stuff that I said and still be able to do what you want?" she cries. "How come I can't do what I want? How come I can't make myself feel better? How come you have to be protecting me all the time? I'm sick of it!"

I open myself to say something, but my tongue runs dry. I thought that we were safe in here. I thought that there was nothing to worry about. It seems that I was wrong. Again.

"I . . . I stabbed myself because . . . because I've been thinking of things," she snuffles. "You give me too much attention, and . . . a-and it makes everybody else feel left out. There's Brody, and- and Jess, and Akilah, and Elysse and even Winsome. They don't get the attention that you give me. And it makes me feel so _selfish_ , you know?" She lets out a weak sob, shaking in a haggard way. "I know there's so many other ways to do it, b-but I don't think that I was . . . thinking right when I stabbed myself." She looks at me, eyes teary. "You know what I mean?"

And I _do_ know what she means. It's exactly what I've been thinking of myself for the past week. _I'm selfish. I give one person too much attention compared to everybody else. I deserve to get hurt and punished._ I never would have thought that Rudy would think exactly the same way as me and attempt to do something so . . . _shocking._ My jaw clenches. The negative aura in the air is at its peak, and it will not back down.

I stay silent, taking a deep, shaky breath. Some sort of calm feeling drags over my shoulders. I'm not alone. Even mentally. Rudy thinks similarly to me and feels the same shame and guilt that is directed towards her as my own is directed to me. Slowly but surely, I start winding up a solution for this. We can both get help. This is none of our true faults because we don't know any better. We've been stuck in this sort of cycle of self-blame when there's really other things to be so worked up about. Just like how I was worked up about Rudy before, and that was what caused me to avoid visiting her in the first place.

We can both get help no matter what. We can both get better.

Rudy breaks the silence with two words. "I'm sorry," she whispers. Plump tears escape her eyes, rolling down her cheeks.

But I do not cry with her. I need to help her instead of sobbing along. I've cried enough already.

I bring a hand up to her face and wipe those tears away, turning her chin so that she looks at me. There is fear clear in those watery eyes.

"It's okay," I quietly console, standing up. "You're okay. It's not your fault."

"It _is_ my fault!"

"No, it's not. You don't have to blame yourself for anything." I wrap my arm around her head, pushing her face gently into my shoulder and letting her soak my clothes with her tears. Her sobs are weak from the stitches in her stomach, but they make my heart ache nonetheless. Still, sometimes you have to let everything out, no matter how much it hurts you in the process. Because after you're done, you'll feel better. You won't have to do it again for some time.

"I'm- I'm sorry," she whimpers again, burying her face into my shoulder. "I shouldn't have done it."

"It's not your fault," I softly tell her. "It's . . . It's not anybody's fault."

It is nobody's fault. I don't think I've ever said that out loud before and included myself at the same time. But I know that there's no wrong in saying it now. It's true. It's nobody's fault because none of us expected or wanted this to happen. Rudy wasn't thinking right when she hurt herself. She just wanted something to break. I didn't expect Rudy to hurt herself in the first place. Wherever the blame is now, there is no use in weighing it down onto somebody. All we can do now is wait. Heal. Get better.

"I want you to get better," I whisper. "I want you to feel better, okay? Don't worry about it. I'm not mad."

She lets out more of her sobs, and I let her. There isn't anything I want more than my little girl letting go of her emotions. Her stress, her struggles, _everything._

Through the sniffles and whimpers, Rudy manages in my ear, " _Thank you_."

Gently, I give her a fatherly kiss on the top of her head, holding her closer than ever.


End file.
